Prompt Responses, Pairings, Threesomes, Moresomes
by ultharkitty
Summary: G1. A collection of one-shot prompt responses with various pairings. These are not related to each other, although some of them fit into the Decepticam AU. May contain sticky smut, please note content advice in headers.
1. Waiting, Optimus Prime and Vortex

**Content advice:** mention of slash, mention of interfacing, suggestive language, cracky

**Summary:** Vortex is in prison (again), and Optimus comes to talk to him. Completely unrelated to the Dysfunction AU fics.

**Notes:** Written for the rare pairing prompt 'Prime/Vortex "I'm not the one who's mad"'. For Aniay.

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Vortex was bored.

There were still two breems until Blast Off was scheduled to blow a hole in the side of the Ark, and he'd run out of things to do.

Taunt Bumblebee: check. Make Perceptor think there was something stuck to his aft: check. Convince Groove that he'd be willing to defect for a tanker of good energon and an upgrade to rotor swords: check. Teach Sludge pro-Decepticon propagandist slogans: check, although he still wasn't sure how he'd managed that one.

It'd help if they sent some more Autobots for him to play with, but the enemy seemed to think that prison was for punishment and rehabilitation, not entertainment. Which was a shame, because in any regular gaol – at least the ones back on Cybertron – there had always been something fun to do, and someone weaker than him to do it to.

Not that he'd ever been locked up for long, not until the Detention Centre. And there was another reason he needed a bit of distraction. All this sitting around gave him far too much thinking time.

One and three quarter breems to go.

He lay on the bunk, arms outstretched in front of him, his tail rotors turning slowly. If it wasn't for his imminent escape, he'd consider making a racket just to get some attention.

As it turned out, however, he didn't need to, because the brig door opened, and the Prime walked in.

"I had my doubts," Optimus said. "When Megatron claimed to have deactivated you." He approached the bars, steadfast and completely unafraid.

"Can't get rid of me," Vortex replied. Not until Blast Off fired that shot, anyway. "You do realise you loom, don't you? I wonder if your troops find it intimidating. I think it's kinda hot."

The Prime gave him a look, those expressive blue eyes narrowed a little in bemusement. This didn't appear to have been what he expected. "I heard you spoke with Groove," he said.

Vortex nodded and stretched out; he could see where this was headed. One and a quarter breems to go. "Sure did. Slag, you're tall. Do you ever stand on the minibots? I mean by accident, 'cause it's gotta be hard to see them from all the way up there."

"No," Optimus responded.

Vortex grinned; so the Prime would avoid responding to a derogatory comment, but he was too polite to ignore a direct question. "What about the humans?" he pushed.

"No. I have never stood on any human."

"This one time," Vortex said, as though it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever heard, "Brawl landed on a rhino."

This seemed to stump him. The Prime's optics narrowed further, but he gave no other outward indication of his temperament. Aside from not speaking.

"It went splat," Vortex added, happily. "You're the strong, silent type, aren't you? I like that in a mech." He liked the nervous talkative type far more, but there was certainly something to be said for the Prime's personality type. Particularly in interrogations, where that kind of challenge could keep him amused for weeks.

"You were only messing with Groove," the Prime continued. "I know that. But consider your situation."

Vortex considered it. One breem, fifty astroseconds to freedom; the future looked great. "You let me play with those antennae of yours and I'll consider anything you want me to," he said.

"I can't allow that," the Prime replied. His optics lost focus for a fraction of an astrosecond, a minute shift in the direction of his gaze. Vortex passed the data through his targeting subroutines, calculating the trajectory.

Frag, the Prime was looking at his rotors.

Never one to waste an opportunity, Vortex revved his engine and made the blades shudder. Yep, there it was again, that momentary glance that he didn't seem to be able to control. Very interesting.

"What you have to ask yourself is this," Optimus said, so calm and collected as though he hadn't been looking at the rotors at all. "Do you want to spend the rest of your long existence in prison?"

Vortex pretended to think about it, running a finger along the leading edge of one of his tail rotors. He retracted his mask, treating the Prime to an inviting smile. One breem left, long enough for a quick frag against the cell wall, and with any luck he could hold the Prime still for long enough for Blast Off's lasers to do some damage. He just had to find a way, and quick, to get the Prime to make a move.

"Course not," he said. "But what you have to ask yourself is this: what do _you_ want?"

"Peace," the Prime said quickly, as though he was thinking of something else. "I want peace. An end to the war. I want freedom for all of us."

"Because freedom's the right of all sentient beings?"

"Yes."

Vortex grinned. If the Prime hadn't glanced at his rotors again, he would have made a crack about keeping the Dinobots in a cupboard when they were fresh out of the lab. But he didn't have time for that. Instead, he got to his feet and leaned against the wall by the bars, his rotors jouncing. "How about the freedom to take what you want when it's offered to you?" he said.

The Prime didn't even pause. "That would be most unwise."

"Shame," Vortex commented. "Rotaries are so rare nowadays. And you know what? I've always wanted to know what your tires feel like. I bet they're all firm and bouncy." He snaked a hand between the glowing bars, fingers straining towards that shiny red armour. "Would you let me touch them if I defect?"

This time, the only discernable reaction was the flicker of his optics. "That won't work on me," he said.

"Shame," Vortex pulled back. A quarter breem to go, hardly time for a grope any more, let alone a quick bang.

"We can offer you treatment," the Prime said, keeping that same level tone. "Constructive reprogramming, and rehabilitation. If you give us the intel we need to end the war."

"Treatment?" Vortex repeated.

The Prime nodded slowly.

Grinning wider, Vortex shook his head. His internal chronometer counted down the astroseconds – twenty, nineteen… "I don't need itreatment/i," he said. "Look at yourself. You've got restrictive morality and double standards coming out your exhaust." He laughed, turning his back to the Prime and giving his rotors another enticing flick. "I'm not the one who's mad."

"We can help you." Optimus urged. "We can-" But he didn't get the chance to finish.

The cell's back wall turned white, then the briefest flash of incandescent violet as the heat of Blast Off's lasers broke through the hull. The floor shook, bringing the Prime to his knees, but Vortex had already transformed.

He launched himself through the gap, his every sensor screaming, overheat warnings flashing across his HUD. Powering up his auxiliary engines, he headed for the glittering sky, where the shuttle waited to ferry him back to HQ.


	2. Parts that spin, Swindle and Vortex

**Content advice:** consensual smut, sticky, non-consensual tickling, bondage, crack, a bit of angst

**Summary:** It's been several decades since the Spare Parts Incident, and the Combaticons have just about got it together, but after some time apart on solo missions, will Vortex and Swindle be able to keep it together?

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Waking from recharge, the first thing Vortex saw was a pair of bright purple optics hovering over a calculating smile.

"Hold him down," Swindle said.

"What the frag?" Vortex began, but Brawl loomed in and grabbed his wrists, using his considerable weight to pin them in place. "Seriously," Vortex continued, a little louder this time. "_What the frag?_"

He hadn't seen his team in six months, and this was what he came back to?

Brawl's optics glimmered, a hint of a smirk somewhere under that heavy battle mask, but he didn't respond. Swindle merely grinned.

Vortex tugged, then heaved. Slag, Brawl was heavy. Too heavy to move without some kind of leverage. And that wasn't something Vortex had, lying on his back with his arms stretched above his head. Swindle gave him a worrying look, the kind of look he might have given back on Earth, around the time of the Spare Parts Incident.

Slag, Vortex had though they were over that. The months of recrimination and hatred had turned into years of bitterness and backstabbing. They'd finally got it together after Charr, and held it together, more or less. But they'd been apart for a while now, off on separate missions where their individual capabilities were more useful than the brute strength of their combined form.

Perhaps it had given Swindle a chance to re-assess things. Perhaps he didn't think he belonged with the team after all.

Vortex tried to reach them through the gestalt bond, grasping after any clue as to what they had planned. But the bond, as ever, remained closed.

"Now," Swindle said.

There were two clicks, and Brawl stepped back. Oh for frag sake! They'd gone and chained him to the berth. And with the heavy duty cuffs Onslaught always used when he wanted Vortex to stay exactly where he put him.

How the slag did they get a hold of those? Vortex had no idea, but if Swindle's grin got any more smug, Vortex might just have to kick him in the face.

"OK Brawl," Swindle said. "You can get lost now."

"Yeah, whatever," Brawl shrugged. "I got a hot date with a few cubes." He gave Vortex another one of those glimmery-optic looks, and sidled out. The door locked automatically behind him.

"What're you doing?" Vortex said. He tried to keep the suspicion from his tone, they _were_ past this, all of them, as a team. And if Swindle even looked like he was about to try carving Vortex up for spares, Vortex was going to... to... do something. Vortex wasn't sure, because Swindle chose just that moment to fondle the tip of one of his rotors.

Well, if that was what he wanted to do, he could just go right ahead.

Looking even more smug, Swindle pulled a small cannister out of his subspace pocket. "Comfy there?" he asked. He didn't wait for Vortex's answer, but got up on the berth and swung a leg over Vortex's knees, facing his feet. He settled on the joints, pressing them in just the right way to disallow them any movement whatsoever.

Vortex squirmed.

"Slag," Swindle said. "I haven't even started yet." He did something Vortex couldn't see, no matter how he strained, and a low hiss began, like the escape of steam from Astrotrain's boiler.

Vortex struggled, trying desperately to move his legs. Oh no, not the feet; surely Swindle wouldn't stoop so low? But Swindle simply squeezed Vortex's knees between his thighs and leaned forward.

"You got so many parts that spin," Swindle said. "But no-one ever pays any attention to these ones."

Vortex bit back a yelp as Swindle grabbed one of his landing wheels, pinching the tire.

"There's a good reason for that," Vortex snarled, straining against the cuffs. At least the pinching didn't tickle. It just buzzed, the redistribution of pneumatic pressure stimulating a whole load of sensors that seemed to have been wired to entirely the wrong set of circuits. But it was altogether far too close to tickling. "You don't have to do this."

"I dunno," Swindle said, bending even lower and doing something that felt suspiciously – and rather deliciously – like running his glossa around the rim of the tiny wheel. "I kinda think I do."

Mmm, that was OK. Vortex relaxed a little. That was more than OK, and as long as Swindle pressed hard enough, it would continue to be more than OK. Vortex sighed, trying to raise one knee just enough to grind against Swindle's pelvic armour.

"Hey, none of that now!" Swindle cried. He wriggled, and brought his thighs tighter together.

"Awww!" That wasn't fair. Swindle couldn't come in here, leap on top of him, lick one of his more delicate parts and not expect to get a good hard spike somewhere intensely satisfying. What the scrap was he playing at?

"You've been weird lately," Swindle commented, still not turning to face him.

The pressure on his landing gear shifted, became lighter. Vortex stifled a giggle.

"Whenever I comm. you, you're all serious and stuff," Swindle continued. "I don't like that." The hissing got louder; oh slag no, that was a compressed gas cylinder, the kind that would be useful for the rotor hub but was absolute hell on certain over-sensitive areas. His engine revving, Swindle applied the nozzle to the axle of Vortex's landing gear.

"No you don't!" Vortex cried. "Slag, that tickles! Stop it, Swin, seriously, I mean it, Swindle stop that! Arghhhhhhhh!"

He tried to thrash, to buck, anything to throw Swindle off, but with his rotors sinking into the pliant covering of his bunk, and his arms and knees pinned, there was nothing he could do. And Swindle lounged over his canopy glass, spinning one wheel gently with his fingers while taking the pressure hose on a gliding, tingling, and pit-damned infuriating tour of Vortex's landing equipment.

"No no no no no! Swin, stop it! StopitSwindle, gah!" The chains clanked, and his rotor tips juddered. His weapons powered up, one of them discharging into the wall behind him, a brief stream of bullets which ricocheted around the room.

Swindle ducked. "Did you miss me?" he said.

"What the scrap? Argh, stop it!" Vortex continued to writhe, his vents hissing louder than the pressure hose, and his fans whirring.

"Did you miss me?" Swindle repeated, his head bobbing as he did something that felt suspiciously like nibbling the mount where Vortex's glue gun would sit in alt mode.

What kind of question was that? The stream of pressurised air was excruciating, and made worse by the fact it was distracting him from the far nicer things Swindle had elected to do with his mouth.

_Maybe_, a small voice screamed from the back of his processor, _it's the kind of question where if you answer him, he stops! Remember that interrogation thing, where you're meant to know all about it?_

"Yes?" he hazarded. "Yes, yeah, I missed you now will you fraggin' well turn that stupid thing off!"

"_May_be," Swindle replied. "Depends how much you missed me."

Oh for frag sake! Vortex redoubled his squirming efforts, hauling on the cuffs hard enough to send warnings flashing across his HUD. "I'm not in the mood for power games," he snapped, or at least tried to. What actually came out was a lot less forceful than he'd intended. But it seemed to have an effect.

The hissing stopped, the pressurised air cut off. Swindle's shoulders slumped. "That's..." he began, his voice almost inaudible over the roar of Vortex's systems. "That's not what I was going for."

"Huh?" Oh scrap, he'd blown it, hadn't he? Not again, he couldn't cope with the team disintegrating just because Swindle had done something stupid and he'd said something dumb in response. Vortex waggled his feet in the vague hope that the glossa might come back. "Hey," he said. "I like the licking."

Swindle turned around and edged forwards, settling himself on Vortex's thighs. "Just thought you could do with a laugh," he said. "And everyone knows your wheels are ticklish."

"Everyone?" OK, that was news to him, and not the good kind. The little canister fell off the side of the berth, making a clonking sound as it hit the floor.

"I just thought," Swindle continued, ignoring the question and the canister. "Y'know…" He shuffled forward again, absently stroking Vortex's pelvic armour in a way that made it very hard to focus on his words. When he spoke again, the words tumbled out in a rush, tightly packed like the small print at the end of one of his sales contracts. "It's always so hard to get you to stay still, and you always used to say how it really gets you off when Onslaught chains you up, and I know you only said that to be an aft head when you wouldn't frag me when we weren't really talking, but I always kinda wanted you to stay in one place long enough and I don't want things to go back to how they were, even if you are a mean-at-core, glitching aft head with fewer intelligence chips than you've got rotors."

That was a lot of 'always', and a lot of insults. Vortex could have raised the stakes, latching onto any one of Swindle's points and making something of it. But he was in the mood for an argument even less than he was in the mood for power games. What he wanted was to be in the mood to interface, although that looked to be off the cards too now, judging by Swindle's expression.

Perhaps he ought to do something about that.

"Long enough for what?" he said. He arched his back, pressing into Swindle's touch. A trace of his team mate's smile re-emerged.

"Oh, you know," Swindle replied. He cupped the centrepiece of Vortex pelvic armour, thumbing the manual release catch without actually activating it.

"Know what?" Vortex prompted. Now that was more like it, hands on his interface cover, the subtle buzz of Swindle's energy field tingling against the tip of his rapidly pressurising spike.

Swindle clicked the release and Vortex sighed. He squirmed again, the sigh turning into a groan as Swindle took him very firmly in hand.

That smug grin was back. "Long enough to do exactly what I want."

"Which is?" Vortex said, arousal turning his voice to static. He almost said 'no tickling?', but Swindle didn't look like he was about to rescue the canister. Vortex took his optics offline for a moment, savouring the undulating tight heat of Swindle's fingers. When he brought them back online, his team mate was grinning.

Swindle bent and flicked his glossa over the tip of Vortex's spike. "You'll see."


	3. Plausible Deniability, Vortex and Brawl

**Title:** Plausible Deniability

**Continuity:** G1, Decepticam AU

**Content advice:** mention of interfacing, mention of violence, coarse language, reminiscence about their early years, crack

**Summary:** The hot copter and the cute tank are in serious trouble, but Vortex has a plan. All he has to do is get Brawl to listen to it. Simple, no? (Plausible deniability: the only one who really has it is Onslaught)

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"There's this thing," Vortex said. "It's called plausible deniability."

Brawl gave an enthusiastic nod. Perched on the edge of Onslaught's desk, he was fidgety, his optics fever-bright and completely unfocused. The lights were on, but it was arguable as to whether anyone was home.

"Say it after me," Vortex prompted. "Plausible. Deniability."

"Plussable. Deniability," Brawl said, glancing up at the ceiling. He swayed a little as he followed the rotation of the cooling fan.

"Eh, close enough." Vortex sighed, his rotors clattering against Onslaught's impeccably organised shelves. "You know what that means, right?"

Brawl continued to sway.

"Oh for frag sake." Vortex shoved his knees apart and grabbed his helm, tugging his head back down to realign the angle of his gaze. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."

"Oooh, hey, we gonna frag now? Cause I could do with easin' a bit of pressure." Brawl patted his codpiece. "If you know what I mean."

Vortex vented slowly; the urge to head butt him in the visor was difficult to resist. Much as interfacing was never that far from Vortex's mind, he wasn't sure how Brawl could think of it at this precise moment. "No," he said, eventually. "And do you know why?"

Brawl shook his head. "Hey, didn't sarge used to say that plussable deniawhatsiface slag?"

Well, what do you know, a synapse firing. "Yeah, he did," Vortex said. "Can you remember what else he used to say?"

Brawl tried to raise his helm, but Vortex held it. "Uh… 'Get out there and gimme fifty?'" he hazarded. "Ooooh, and 'What in the name of Vector Sigma do you think you're doing?' He used to say that a lot. And that one about storing your ammo right. And cleaning your guns. And about how all rotaries were as dumb as Nebulan land toads and twice as horny."

Vortex glared. "What about the _other_ thing he used to say. Back in basic augmentation."

"The whu?" Brawl responded. "Fragged if I can remember. I dunno scrap what happened when I came off that conveyor and you know it."

"He used to say," Vortex pressed on, ignoring the whine building in Brawl's engine. "'Don't frag up. If you're gonna frag up, don't get caught, and if you're gonna get caught, pin it on some other bastard, and _never_ give them enough to pin it on you.'" He leaned forward, pressing their visors together, blocking visual input from anything but himself in the hope that Brawl might focus. "Remember that?"

Brawl's optics flickered, widening under the orange glass. "Oh! Yeah!" He tried to tilt his head. "I don't get it. Why you tellin' me this? We already got caught."

"Not exactly," Vortex said patiently. "They think it was us, but they don't _know_. That's why Onslaught's left us in here to have this little talk. And we've got half a breem before he gets back, so, are you listening?"

"Sure, yeah, I'm _listening!_" Brawl huffed.

Funny, Vortex thought, because it doesn't look like it. "OK, so, _you_ know we slagged over Ramjet, gave that box thing carrying to Swindle, and made off with the high grade. _I_ know we slagged over Ramjet, gave that box thing to Swindle, and made off with the high grade. But Megatron doesn't, not really."

"Awwwwwwwwww!" Brawl wailed. "You're about to do that thing where you say stuff and it makes my insides all itch 'cause of the bad code!"

"Not if you listen carefully," Vortex said. The loyalty programming could be circumvented, it just took some creative thinking. And some simple concepts when explaining it to Brawl. "Ramjet's lost his short-term storage, he won't be able to recognise us. We don't have the box thingy any more, the super-weapon that was in it, or the high grade. The only evidence is up here." He tapped his helm, then remembered Brawl's idiosyncratic internal geography and tapped the tank on his chest. "Or in here, whatever. Important thing is, there's no evidence except in our databanks.

"Now…" he paused, waiting for Brawl to look as though he was catching up. "Megsy needs us. We're like his best troops, and he needs Bruticus. If he finds out what we did, _especially_ if he finds out Swin's gone and sold his new super-weapon to the squishies in Russia, we're gonna get locked up. And if we get locked up, all his plans all go to scrap, right?"

Brawl looked as though he was about to be the voice of reason, his head trying to shake a 'no' in Vortex's hands. Vortex held him still.

"_Right?_" Vortex pressed.

"Uh, yeah, right!" Brawl said.

"And if Megsy's plans all go to scrap, that'd be us making a deliberate move against him, wouldn't it?"

Brawl seemed to think about this, before uttering a far quieter and less certain, "_Riiiiiight?_"

"So," Vortex said. "To stay loyal, we gotta stop Megsy from finding out what we did. 'Cause we don't wanna frag up his plans, do we, Brawlie?"

"No!" Brawl responded, this time with the certainty of a mech who knows that he's finally saying what his team mate wants him to say.

Vortex nodded, pulling back a little. "OK, now this is where the plausible deniability stuff comes in. You ready?"

Brawl nodded slowly.

"If we're gonna convince Megsy that it wasn't us, we gotta do a quick number on our databanks."

"Nooooooo!"

"_Yes_," Vortex said, resisting the urge to copy Brawl's diction. "Only things you gotta get rid of is where we handed over that box thing to Swindle, and this conversation. You don't need to get rid of the rest, just swap it around with something else."

"But then then then my memories, they'll be all out of order!" Brawl cried.

And what? Vortex thought. You'll get confused? Too late for that. "Yeah, I know. We can fix it later. We just gotta get rid of the direct evidence. Replace it with a clip of us fragging from the other night. Y'know, with that thick old oil and the paintbrush. Who the Pit's gonna wanna watch that?"

"O_kay_," Brawl said. "But I don't like this."

"It's all good," Vortex replied. "I hid the high grade in Wildrider's small arms locker, and he doesn't have an alibi. If they find out we did one over on Ramjet, they still don't know we gave the box to Swin. But as long as it's not Soundwave doing the scan, they won't get that far. We'll be off the hook and Megsy's plans will be safe. You got all that?"

"I dunno," Brawl said. "I feel kinda itchy."

Vortex could sympathise, but he wasn't about to admit it. "OK, you swapped the memory file around?"

"I'm gettin' to it!" Brawl shuffled his legs, making the table wobble. "OK, I done it now."

"All right," said Vortex. "Permanent deletion of the bit where Swin nabbed the box, and the whole of the last two beems in three… two… one…"

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When Onslaught slipped back into his office, Vortex was poking Brawl's caterpillar treads, testing them to see how springy they were.

"You done?" Onslaught said.

Vortex shrugged. "Uh, we didn't frag on your desk, honest." He wasn't sure what they _had_ done, but his interface hardware felt sadly neglected, so it couldn't have been that. Brawl just followed Vortex's fingers, flexing his heel component happily.

"Brawl?" Onslaught said.

"Huh?" Brawl glanced up, but when no further instruction was forthcoming, his attention went back to the moving parts.

Onslaught nodded. "Good," he said. "Megatron will see you now."


	4. Lines, Galvatron and Cyclonus

**Title:** Lines  
**Continuity:** G1, season 3  
**Rating:** R  
**Content advice:** nonconsensual molestation (due to Cyclonus being unconscious - if he was conscious, it would all be perfectly consensual), mention of BDSM  
**Characters:** Galvatron/Cyclonus  
**Summary:** Cyclonus is in recharge, and Galvatron just can't help himself.

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Sometimes, Galvatron lay awake and looked at Cyclonus.

His second in recharge was a wholly different prospect to his second awake. There was no edge of caution to his vocalisations. No small corner of his CPU isolated from everything, and dedicated purely and simply to keeping them both alive.

There was just Cyclonus: open, trusting, and completely and utterly _his_.

Sometimes, Galvatron did more than look.

His hands travelled well-worn paths across his second's armour, and his fingers tingled with the soporific buzz of Cyclonus' muted energy field. His lips sparked against naked metal, a web of slender lines in silver-grey, a delicate network eaten away by the caustic bite of the electrowhip.

Galvatron's glossa stung as he followed them, tasting scorched paint and burnt-out sensors. His denta ached when he couldn't resist biting – not gently - on the edge of a wing.

Purple gave way to silver here too, and Galvatron's fingers twitched.

Unconscious, Cyclonus murmured and stretched. It was pleasing that he was so receptive, but it wasn't enough. Galvatron's connectors sparked in their housing, his ports ached.

Unable to wait the extra joor for Cyclonus' recharge cycle to end, Galvatron slid a hand between his second's thighs and wrapped his mouth around the tip of an antenna.

Cyclonus stirred as Galvatron squeezed, the moment of waking revealed in the hopeful harsh flare of his energy field.

Cyclonus' optics blazed. He smiled, his interface covers drawing back. "My lord."


	5. SG Rodimus and Scourge

**Title:** Distinguished-looking mechs  
**Continuity:** G1, season 3  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Content advice:** crack, flirtation  
**Characters:** SG!Rodimus/Scourge  
**Summary:** Scourge tries to apprehend a strange new Autobot, but it doesn't go the way he plans.

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"Well, hello there." The new mech gave Scourge the dirtiest grin he'd seen since the last time he'd watched Galvatron watching Cyclonus. Certainly the dirtiest grin that had ever been levelled at him.

"Hello indeed," Scourge sniffed, raising his Disintegrator Ray. "Put your hands in the air and face the wall, Autoscum."

"Sure thing," the new mech stroked his moustache. It was black, like a good deal of his plating. What wasn't black was purple; a really strange colour scheme for an Autobot. "On one condition. I want you between the wall and me."

"Huh?"

"Come one now," the newcomer said. "Don't be shy. Distinguished lookin' mech like yourself should know a come on when he hears one."

A come _what_? Scourge had no idea. Well, he had a small idea, but he didn't want to entertain it. So what if this guy wore a nice paintjob; and so what if he had a tache that Scourge really wouldn't mind getting his fingers around? He was an Autobot, and Autobots weren't for... dilly dallying with.

Unless you were a Combaticon interrogator, apparently. But Scourge had issues with that, and it didn't compromise his internal logic. Oh no, not one - "Hey! What are you-"

In complete disregard of the Disintegrator Ray, the Autobot shoved him back against a stub of Charr's ruined senate house. "I'm facing the wall," he said. "What does it look like?"

"You're an impertinent-" But Scourge didn't get any further, because the Autobot chose that moment to run his fingers very gently the length of Scourge's moustache, and the only thing to emerge from his vocaliser was a choked whimper.

"Facin' the wall's fun and all," the Autobot said. "But I'd far rather 'face you."

"That..." Scourge managed, suppressing a shiver and an urgent desire to drop his gun. "...is a very bad pun. Oh!"

"Yeah," the Autobot said. "You're getting' into it. You can touch mine, I saw you looking at it."

Scourge performed a quick scan of the surrounding terrain. Two Sweeps, a turbo-rat, and a great big pile of absolutely nothing at all. No Cyclonus, no Galvatron, and he wasn't expected anywhere for a good three joors.

He reached up, trailing his fingertips over the finely-painted metal. The Autobot's engine purred. Maybe a little dilly dallying...


	6. Team Player, Vortex, Brawl, Swindle

**Characters:** Vortex/Braw/Swindle

**Content advice: **explicit sticky smut, crack

**Notes:** part of the Decepticam AU

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Vortex lay back and smiled to himself. Getting Brawl to bang Swindle while he watched had to be the best idea he'd had since they got out of the Detention Centre.

The look on Swindle's face was priceless. A little shock, a little awe, and a lot of trepidation as Brawl lined up behind him. The yellow rust bucket hadn't been expecting this.

Vortex could guess what he _had_ been expecting. A good kicking, probably, the removal of certain vital parts. But Swindle had only bent the rules this time, he hadn't broken them. Opening communications with Quintessa was nothing like selling his team for spares.

"Bring him closer," Vortex said to Brawl. "Let's give him a reminder why he oughtta stick with his team."

Swindle squeaked as Brawl lifted him. Spiked already, very nice. Even better when Brawl put him down on the bunk on his hands and knees, easily within Vortex's reach. The tank didn't wait for approval, but grabbed Swindle's hips and immediately began to thrust, his orange optics flickering.

Swindle tensed. "Oh! Fragfragfragfragfrag!"

"Enjoying that?" Vortex asked. Swindle whimpered in response, the sound almost lost under the echoing clatter as Brawl worked the smaller mech's valve.

"I sure am!" Brawl snarled, and Swindle yelped as Brawl slapped him hard on the aft. But Swindle didn't have the chance to say anything about it, because Vortex leaned in and nibbled gently on his lower lip. Another slap, and Swindle moaned, then another and he shuddered, his engine roaring.

"You've been a very naughty mech again," Vortex said, cupping Swindle's chin in his hand. "But you want to be a team player, don't you?"

Swindle nodded furiously, that gleam of trepidation still present in his optics. Brawl slapped him again, then seized him by the waist and squeezed, hauling him rough and fast over his spike.

"Ooooooh!" Swindle wailed, his tires juddering and his every part seeming to bounce.

"Harder," Vortex demanded, his own spike trying to pressurise beneath its cover as Brawl complied with extreme enthusiasm. Vortex pressed two fingers to Swindle's lips, and shuddered as Swindle took them in.

He was tempted to release his spike, to press that to Swindle's lips and see how well he could keep a hold of it. But Brawl was nearing overload – so wonderfully loud, and taking Swindle with him – and it was a far more tempting prospect to wait.

Sure enough, Swindle didn't last. His teeth clamped around Vortex's fingers, and his energy field blazed. Vortex's optics shorted, his visuals failing for a long astrosecond as the stimulation to his fingers overwhelmed all other tactile input. He heard the smack of metal on metal, Brawl's triumphant howl. Then Swindle's cursing, muffled by the fingers in his mouth, each profanity running a little jolt of pleasure-pain through Vortex's hand.

"Ugh…" There was a clang as Brawl fell back, panting hard. "Frag, Tex," he said. "You gotta try that."

Vortex's visuals returned in time to see Swindle collapse on the bunk. Some of the paint was missing from his rear, and there were dents all along his waist, but his smile was satisfied, his EM field buzzing with satiation and relief.

"Thought you guys were torqued," he muttered. "You ain't gonna tell Onslaught about my, uh, little comm calls, are you?"

"Heh, we'll see," Vortex replied and tapped him on the nose. Swindle tried to bite him again, but missed. "Not so fast." He grabbed Swindle under the arms and hauled him onto his lap.

The smaller mech clung to him. "Tired," he said. "Gimme an astrosec." But it didn't stop him grabbing for Vortex's rotors.

"Mmmm." Vortex hefted him, aligning Swindle's overheated valve with his spike. Swindle's gasp was music to his audials, and his wriggling made Vortex's equipment ache as hard as his damaged fingers. "Astrosec's up," he said, and slid his spike into the welcoming heat of his team mate's valve.

Swindle groaned, clinging tighter, and pressed his face to Vortex's shoulder.

Grinning happily, Brawl leant against the wall and watched.


	7. Screwing for Peace, Blades, Sandstorm

**Content advice:** crack, implied slash, one use of human profanity.

**Summary: **Sandstorm and Blades discuss interfacing.

**Notes:** This occurrs a few decades after 'Alone in the Ark', and a while before 'Side Effects'.

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Blades shook his head. "Oh no," he said, backing up until his aft hit the bar. Sandstorm couldn't be serious. "I mean, _frag_ no. No with more 'no' piled on top! Why are you're grinning like that?"

"Because you're cute when you're indignant," Sandstorm laughed, his tail rotors spinning. "And because I asked First Aid about it, and he thinks it'd be a great idea."

"What?" Blades' jaw dropped. "No he doesn't!"

"Sure he does," Sandstorm said. "I asked him if he thought that 'facing for peace was a better idea than fighting for it, and he got that wistful look he sometimes gets, and he agreed with me."

"That's not the same!" Blades objected. "I bet you didn't tell him _who_… And… and I thought you were all _for_ fighting for peace?"

"I fight for _freedom_," Sandstorm said. "But peace isn't for fighting over. It's like the humans say – fighting for peace is like fucking for chastity."

"They say that?"

Sandstorm nodded. Then he leaned over and did something to Blades' rotors that made him melt a little inside.

"We could have a twosome?" Blades said hopefully.

"Sure!" Sandstorm agreed. "But give the threeway a chance too. The things he can do with his cables…"

"He's a Decepticon!" Blades cried, then cringed when his voice rang out far louder than the background music. "And a total psycho," he continued at a far lower volume. "And violent and cruel, and…"

Sandstorm thrust a fresh cube into Blades' hands. "He likes fragging," he said. "And he's always been fine with me."

"Always?" Blades almost dropped the cube. "What do you mean 'always'… You've done it with him before?"

Sandstorm grinned and nodded, his tail rotors bouncing. "Loads of times. One time, his team showed up, so we had to pretend he'd taken me prisoner. Never had so much fun in an interrogation cell."

"But… How did you get out?"

"Octane," Sandstorm shrugged. "Tex left the door open, and I snuck away. Called for Octane as soon as I could find a safe spot for him to land."

Blades looked into his cube. The energon swirled, vibrant and tempting. Kinda like Sandstorm. But Vortex? That wouldn't be screwing for peace, it'd be screwing to end up in pieces. He took a sip of the high grade, curiosity getting the better of him. "What do you guys… Y'know, _do_?"

Sandstorm's grin widened. "All kinds of things," he said. "You'll find out. He said he'd be here before closing."

Blades sputtered, air mixing with his energon and going down his tubes in entirely the wrong way. "Wha'?" he managed.

"No pressure to join in," Sandstorm said. "But you should come watch." He patted Blades on the shoulder. "Give screwing for peace a chance."


	8. Sunstreaker the Happy Voyeur

**Notes: **Skyfire/Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, consensual sticky smut, voyeurism, hint of dubcon in that Skyfire doesn't know he's being watched, PWP. Decepticam AU.

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Sunstreaker wasn't sure how Sideswipe had done it, but he appeared to have talked Skyfire into removing a key segment of his plating. And in a storage locker of all places; very cosy. If only the security monitor had sound – slag, it probably did, but who knew what all those little buttons and dials were for? Sunstreaker certainly didn't.

What he did know was that this would be worth watching, sound or no sound.

He checked his chronometer; four breems before Red Alert was due back. More than enough time to open his hatch, pull out his spike, and enjoy the show.

He settled back in the chair, and set about lubricating his equipment. His fingers tingled on contact with the nodes, and his engine revved; nice and hot already, and no wonder. There was something incredibly arousing about seeing Sideswipe with a larger mech. Especially when he knelt, and _especially _especially when Sunstreaker had a very good view of his smirking mouth.

Sideswipe's lips parted, taking in the tip of Skyfire's spike. And only the tip. Sunstreaker's valve thrummed, want coursing through him. Skyfire sure was proportionate.

And oh, that was good, watching Sideswipe ease Skyfire to full pressure, employing his hands when his mouth just wasn't enough. Sunstreaker's own grip tightened, but he resisted increasing his pace. Better to maintain slow strokes, enjoy the gradual accumulation of charge. He didn't want to finish before his brother, that just wouldn't be right.

He saw Skyfire tense, his hand on Sideswipe's helm, then Sideswipe pulled back, licking a trace of lubricant from his lips. He stood, pressing himself against the airframe, his hands moving slowly over Skyfire's chest, tracing the outline of his insignia.

Skyfire said something, probably something asinine and completely unattractive – making sure Sideswipe really _was_into it or some other over-cautious scrap. But Sideswipe just laughed and bent forward over a stack of crates, waggling his aft.

Now that was more like it. Sideswipe's cover retracted, and Skyfire didn't quite seem able to help himself. He stroked Sideswipe's aft, then his back, a slow and gentle caress that sent Sunstreaker's charge soaring.

By the look of things, it was also doing something for Sideswipe. He angled his aft further up, and parted his thighs. Then Skyfire did something unexpected and lifted him, getting a crate under each of his feet, bringing him up to the right height.

Sunstreaker zoomed in on the monitor, wishing he knew how to make the camera itself zoom, as Skyfire lined up his spike with Sideswipe's slick, inviting valve, and pushed slowly inside.

Frag, he was big. And _hot_frag, Sideswipe was feeling it, if the tension in his frame and the way he clung to the crate were any indication.

Sunstreaker sighed, and began to stroke his spike to the rhythm of Skyfire's thrusts.

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"Oh frag oh frag that's good!" Sideswipe cried. He clung to the metal box, every last byte of attention fixated on the spike filling his valve. _Over_filling according to his warnings, but not according to his interface routines. His 'facing software thought it was perfect.

"Mmmm," Skyfire moaned, his hands coasting over Sideswipe's armour. Already warm and tingly, Sideswipe's plating buzzed at the contact, his energy field flaring and his spike battering against the inside of its hatch.

He writhed, setting his spike free, and hissed as it ground against the crate. "No, frag don't stop!" he yelled, as Skyfire eased up. "Faster, oh frag you gotta do me faster!"

"You're not hurt?" Skyfire said. He sounded genuinely concerned, but while that was nice and all, it wasn't helping get Sideswipe off. Or Sunstreaker, probably, who better be watching over the security monitors.

"No! Not hurt, I'm fine, just frag me, please, oh Sigma you gotta… What are doing?" He tried to turn and look, but the angle was wrong, and Skyfire's grip was too tight. The spike, where was the spike! Frag no, this wasn't what he wanted. "Get that back in me!" But then Skyfire lifted him again and kicked the crates aside. He pressed Sideswipe against the wall, his back still to Skyfire, those large hands on his aft.

Sideswipe's feet dangled and he scrabbled for purchase. But the odd feeling of unbalance faded as Skyfire thrust up inside him and he almost overloaded on the spot. He stretched his arms above his head, reaching for a hook set into the wall. He grabbed it, using it to stabilise himself, give a bit of leverage to reciprocate the thrusting.

"Oh yeah," he sighed. He took his optics offline, focusing entirely on the pounding. Each thrust was incrementally harder than the one before, thudding through Sideswipe's frame and making his spike crash against the wall. Each impact was a thrill, and his components rattled, his spike crackled and ached. And his valve clenched, fuller than he'd ever known it, as Skyfire fragged him towards overload.

Sunstreaker _really_ had better be watching.

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Oh scrap, this was better than catching the other 'bots at it. It was better than watching Sideswipe pleasure himself on Prowl's desk. Skyfire was so big, so immense and strong and so very careful with that strength.

But not so careful that he was above fucking Sideswipe into the wall, which - hot _scrap _- Sideswipe seemed to be enjoying just as much as Sunstreaker was enjoying watching them.

Then Skyfire paused, his wings shuddering so hard the ailerons flapped. Sunstreaker moaned, tightening his grip and imagining the wash of fluid in his brother's valve, the surge of charge burning through him as his overload hit.

They were synchronised, or as close to as made no difference: Sideswipe overloading on Skyfire's spike, a dribble of transfluid seeping down the wall from his own equipment; and Sunstreaker reaching climax in Red Alert's chair, hot and sticky in his hand, satiation humming through him.

Skyfire held Sideswipe for a long moment, stroking him just as slowly as before, kissing the back of his neck, his wings still shivering. Sunstreaker grinned. Sure, he was done, but if Skyfire was up for another round – and he didn't doubt for a moment that Sideswipe would be – he had a valve that could do with a bit of manual stimulation.

Sunstreaker checked his chronometer. Just over a breem before Red Alert came back. That was long enough, right?


	9. Ultra Magnus and Cyclonus lost in space

**Title:** The Quintessons Tried to Make them Do It

**Rating:** PG

**Content advice:** implied slash if you squint and tilt your head (like I'm doing)

**Characters and/or pairings:** Ultra Magnus and Cyclonus

**Summary:** the two factions' respective SICs find themselves lost in space together. Again.

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"Cyclonus." Ultra Magnus holstered his pistol; he wouldn't be needing it for a while.

Cyclonus nodded in acknowledgment. "Magnus." The whine of his weapons ceased as he powered them down. "Where are we this time?"

"No idea," Ultra Magnus replied. "I arrived just before you. Preliminary scans show no signs of life, mechanoid or organic."

Cyclonus looked up, and Ultra Magnus waited while the Decepticon ran his own scans. "Binary star system," he said after a while. "That should narrow it down somewhat." He knelt, trailing his fingers through the planet's lifeless dust. "I'm picking up trace readings, Quintessonian in origin, but they appear quite old."

Ultra Magnus sighed; that would have been the drone ship, sent to install the hidden cameras. Every thirty solar cycles, the Quintessons found a way to abduct the both of them and maroon them on some remote, deserted world. And every thirty solar cycles he and Cyclonus were forced to work together to un-maroon themselves. Rodimus had joked that the Quintessons were playing cupid, and Kup had laughed until his vocaliser glitched, but Ultra Magnus hadn't thought it was particularly funny. It sounded exactly like something the Quintessons would do.

He re-set his scanners and tried to look anywhere but at the Decepticon SIC. "How are your fuel reserves?" he asked.

"Low," Cyclonus replied. "Hardly enough to reach escape velocity. I was on my way to refuel when I found myself here." He paused, then picked up another handful of the dust. "The geology is energon-bearing," he said. "We have our way out."

"Good," Ultra Magnus said, but he couldn't help a surge of regret that their difficulties would be resolved so easily. Much as he hated to admit it, he enjoyed these joors alone with his enemy. Cyclonus was good company; he made intelligent conversation, and it was always a rewarding challenge to work with him to figure out exactly where the Quintessons had left them, and how they could get home.

"Of course," Cyclonus said, "the mining could prove problematic. We need to locate a viable seam, extract the ore without causing it to destabilise, and refine the fuel." He turned away, but Ultra Magnus caught what he thought was the hint of a smile. "It may take some time."

"It probably will," Ultra Magnus agreed. He stood again, unable to stop himself from smiling in response. "Let's get started."


	10. New things, Sandstorm and Octane

**Characters and/or pairings:** Sandstorm/Octane

**Summary: **In which Sandstorm attempts to convince Octane to try something new, but it isn't what Octane expects.

**Rating/Content Advice:** PG-13 for suggestive behaviour and heavily implied slash

**Notes:** Written to this prompt from Caia: 'Octane and Sandstorm, trying something new'

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"But Sandy, baby, you know I can't do that!" Octane threw his hands up, his wingtips twitching.

"Why not?" Sandstorm said. He put his hands on his hips and looked up into Octane's wide – and quite worried – purple optics. He was glad the two of them were outside; he'd rather get the persuasion element over and done with before anyone else caught on to his plan. "I think you'd make a wonderful peace ambassador."

Octane huffed. "Public speaking gives me surges!"

Sandstorm suppressed a smirk; anything gave Octane surges if he didn't want to do it. "I bet Hoist would give you a nice tune-up, or First Aid. You like them, right?"

"Sure, they're great." Octane didn't sound convinced. "But… _Peace_ ambassador?" He frowned and crossed his arms. "When you said we should try something new, this really wasn't what I had in mind."

"It wasn't?" Sandstorm ever so casually rested his hand on the broad, flat surface of Octane's wing. "I thought you might enjoy the chance to prove the cynics wrong."

"You did? I mean sure, yeah." Octane leant into the touch. "Of course I do! But about these other things we could try-"

"I think it would do everyone good," Sandstorm said. Including Octane, he thought, who needed something to focus on other than assassins, Galvatron, and collecting valuable objects for 'safe storage' in his room. "We can show them the potential for an Autobot-Decepticon alliance," he continued. "An alternative to war. We can give them a vision for the future. You want to be a part of that, don't you?"

There was a pause while Octane seemed to think about it. Eventually, and with his wing getting progressively warmer under Sandstorm's palm, he nodded. "Why not? I mean, how can this possibly go wrong?"

Sandstorm grinned. "Any one of about a thousand ways," he said. "But we'll cope. And now…" He reached into a compartment and brought out a car battery, a set of jump cables and a canister of liquid nitrogen.

Octane gaped. "What're those for?"

Sandstorm's grin widened, and his tail rotors whirred. "They're the other new thing I thought we could try."


	11. Vortex, Air Raid and Fireflight

**Content advice:** non-explicit sticky smut

**Characters and/or pairings:** Vortex/Air Raid, Fireflight

**Summary:** Fireflight catches one of his teammates at it. Complete and utter crack written for zomgitsalaura during a commentfic challenge a while back. The prompt was 'puppy-dog eyes'.

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Fireflight peered around yet another ruined building, enticed by the unmistakable sounds of Air Raid approaching overload. He'd been getting some highly entertaining sensations through the gestalt bond for the duration of the battle, and now that it was over he was eager to have his suspicions confirmed.

He leaned further around the corner, and froze. Those weren't pale hands on those glossy dark wings. And that wasn't a fellow Autobot who had Air Raid pinned against the stub of skyscraper, whose fingers tweaked his team mate's ailerons while dark grey hips moved between Air Raid's thighs. Matt rotors jounced, and crimson light reflected from red and white plating.

"Harder! Frag yes, HARDER!" Air Raid howled, and Fireflight could do nothing but watch in horrified fascination as his team mate clung to the Decepticon's helm and overloaded as loud and hard as Fireflight had ever known him to.

"Mmmm," Vortex growled, thrusting once more as he held Air Raid against the wall, the both of them heaving for air. "Frag, you're tasty."

Fireflight whimpered, trying in vain to resist the little tingles of charge worming their way through his interface circuits. He really didn't need this right now. And he _really_ didn't need Air Raid to bring his optics online and catch sight of him over Vortex's shoulder.

"Oh frag," Air Raid said. "Uh… Flighty! Fancy seeing you here…"

"Yeah," Fireflight responded. "About that…"

Vortex glanced back and snickered; Air Raid slapped him on the helm.

"Flight_yyyyyy_," Air Raid began, his optics wide and lips quivering. Fireflight didn't know how he managed it, for scrap's sake the Decepticon's hardware was probably still in his… was probably… Fireflight forced his train of thought onto another track.

"Yes?" he snapped, folding his arms.

"You're not gonna tell Silverbolt, are you?" And there it was, that full-on puppy-dog stare as Sparkplug called it. Fireflight sighed; it wasn't like he could resist. Well, maybe he could _now_ with that Combaticon glaring at him and licking his lips like that, but if Air Raid tried it later Fireflight wouldn't have a chance.

"We'll see," he said, but it was obvious from Air Raid's smirk that he knew he'd won.

Vortex let Air Raid down. "Flighty can keep a secret?" he said, his battle mask snapping closed over his incredibly smug grin.

"Sure," Air Raid replied. He leaned against the wall, looking far too insouciant for someone who'd just been caught fraternising.

Fireflight glared at him. He darned well could not keep a secret. _Would_ not, he thought. Not for Vortex.

The Combaticon's optics gleamed. "Don't tell First Aid," he said, and took to the air.


	12. Optimus, Ratchet, Jazz, Skyfire

**Title:** Cybertron Day

**Content Advice:** explicit consensual sticky orgy, pwp, size kink, voyeurism.

**Characters:** Optimus, Ratchet, Jazz, Skyfire

**Summary:** Optimus is horny, and wants to re-live an old Cybertronian custom. Ratchet, Jazz and Skyfire are very happy to oblige.

**Notes:** written for a propmt on the kinkmeme. I didn't know at the time, but the requester was my Autobot bb :3**  
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"Ratchet, please, hold still. I need you." Optimus seized his CMO around the hips and knelt in front of him, right in the middle of the Ark's main corridor.

"Optimus, we're in _public_," Ratchet hissed, then squeaked in a most un-CMO-like manner as Optimus's mask slid aside and he ran his glossa over Ratchet's rapidly heating panel.

"I don't care," Optimus said. "You wouldn't have cared back on Cybertron."

"Things were different then!" Ratchet cried. He backed up a half step, and the wall caught him in the skidplate. Not that he didn't want Optimus's mouth around his equipment - quite the opposite in fact, and his entire frame tingled for it. It was just the context. "The humans might see; they have all those taboos about interfa-" He froze; his panel had come undone all by itself, and his spike was slowly sliding free. "Oh _slag_..."

"The humans aren't here," Optimus rumbled, and Ratchet gasped as the Prime took his spike in his mouth. That glossa, the heat, the friction, everything was just too good. Ratchet's head flew back, his helm denting the wall. He groaned, fingers scrabbling for purchase on Optimus's antennae.

"Wow," a new voice intruded. Ratchet recognised Jazz, but only barely. "What's goin' on here, my mech?"

_I'm about to overload,_ Ratchet thought, but he managed to force out a difference set of words. "What... it looks like," he said, his voice strained beyond belief. "Prime... reliving the... good... old... days. Oh frag!"

"Knew there was somethin' about Cybertron I was missin'," Jazz said.

Ratchet could only nod, his fans on high and his head spinning. He clutched at his leader's helm as the charge rushed through him, the overload building inexorably until Optimus enveloped Ratchet's entire spike in his mouth, the tip hitting the back of Optimus's throat and _oh by PRIMUS_ that was good. Ratchet came loudly, barely able to stand as Optimus licked the transfluid and the lubricant from his hardware.

"My turn?" Jazz suggested, giving them both a grin that Ratchet hadn't seen since the Ark first launched.

"My pleasure," Optimus said, but before Jazz could release his panel, Optimus had vanished into an adjacent office. He returned quickly, carrying a comfortable-looking chair.

"We could always have gone _in_ the office," Ratchet commented, but he knew that wasn't the point. There had been no shame in public interfacing on Cybertron – especially not on this particular day each orbital cycle, when Autobots were encouraged to interface with as many partners as possible – and so there shouldn't be here. Well, when the humans weren't on base, anyway.

"Would you like a seat, Ratchet?" Optimus asked. Jazz's grin grew wider; clearly, he could see where this was going.

"Yes," Ratchet said, but as soon as he was seated, Optimus hooked his arms under Ratchet's knees, raising his legs. Yes, this certainly was going where Ratchet thought it was. He released his valve cover, and moaned as Optimus lapped at the rim of his valve. Over Optimus's shoulder, he could see Jazz stroking his spike and giving Optimus's aft a deliciously calculating look.

"Please, Jazz!" Optimus groaned, and the vibrations of his voice thrummed through Ratchet's valve and made his sensors sing. Then Jazz got in place behind their leader; he made optical contact with Ratchet, bit his lower lip in a wonderfully seductive way, and thrust forward.

Ratchet had never felt so wanton. His legs spread, Optimus's glossa working in and out of his valve, catching on the nodes and stretching him almost as wide as a spike could. And the vibrations from Jazz as he fucked Optimus hard, his dark hands on Optimus's hips, his blue optics flickering.

And a newcomer watching them. Skyfire; a pile of datapads in his arms, and a slightly bemused expression on his face.

After a while Skyfire smiled, confusion apparently giving way to something else entirely, but he said nothing. Instead, he quietly leaned against the wall, his optics on the scene. Ratchet turned his attention back to Jazz and their Prime, although he felt Skyfire's gaze like a white heat melting through his armour.

"Harder, Jazz!" Optimus moaned, then thrust his glossa deep into Ratchet's valve. Ratchet bucked, wrapping his legs around Optimus's head. Oh frag, if he wasn't about to come a second time...

"Whatever you say!" Jazz cried, and Ratchet could hold back no longer. He bucked again, his back arching, and his valve spiralling down on Optimus's glossa, clutching and pulsing as the overload coursed through him.

Jazz wailed, a dissonant chord as he thrust into Optimus and held himself there, his ventilation stilled and his optics blank. Ratchet knew he was teasing every last joule of pleasure from the interface.

Ratchet would have been perfectly happy to have done the same, if only his systems were quicker to recover. As it was, he knew it'd be a little while before he was ready for another round.

Jazz pulled out, panting hard, and Optimus moaned anew.

"Again?" Optimus asked, flicking out his glossa and giving Ratchet's over-sensitised equipment a thrill that was a little too much for Ratchet to take.

"Ooooooh, not just yet!" Ratchet unwound his legs. "I'll watch," he said, a lazy smile on his lips.

"Skyfire?" Optimus queried. He still knelt on the floor, aft up, with – Ratchet imagined – his glistening, inviting valve on show. Ratchet wasn't sure Optimus had overloaded from Jazz alone; it had always taken a little extra to finish him off.

"I think I lost track of time," Skyfire responded. "I didn't realise it was Cybertron day." His ailerons twitched, and his smile took on a shy edge. "That is, I mean, I'd be honoured."

He managed to set the datapads on the floor before Optimus reached him. Ratchet didn't close his panel, or his legs, but allowed one hand to drift downwards, teasing the end of his spike in its housing. Jazz laughed and sat on the chair between his legs, leaning back against Ratchet's chest.

"We're gonna get quite a show," he said.

"So are they," Ratchet whispered back, and nodded to a small group of newcomers at the other end of the corridor. He could just make out a yellow flanged helm and a black helm next to it hovering above red shoulders. Then black and red vanished in the direction of the rec room. "Sideswipe knows, and soon so will everyone else," Ratchet commented, and slid his other arm around Jazz's waist.

"The more the merrier," Jazz snickered, and sighed as he guided Ratchet's hand further down.

That seemed to be Optimus's opinion too, as he leaned up to kiss Skyfire full on the mouth. Ratchet couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Optimus locked in an embrace with a flier, but as his fingertips edged past the rim of Jazz's valve, he thought it was one of the most erotic things he'd ever witnessed.

Then Skyfire lifted Optimus – actually _lifted_ him – and Ratchet's fans stopped dead.

"However you want me," Optimus murmured, in response to a question Ratchet hadn't heard. Skyfire's fans roared like turbines and his spike looked even better than it had the one time Ratchet had had occasion to view it during maintenance. A very nice spike indeed, and beautifully in proportion with Skyfire's frame.

But he didn't enter Optimus immediately, despite the obvious slick readiness of the Prime's equipment. Instead, he carried Optimus closer to the growing crowd, and pressed him against the wall. Hooking an arm beneath Optimus's right leg, his other arm supporting his aft, Skyfire tilted him to give those assembled an unrivalled view.

Ratchet sighed and Jazz squirmed, moving himself on Ratchet's fingers.

"Please!" Optimus gripped Skyfire's shoulders, his optics blazing and his ventilation coming in quick gasps. "I want you! I want you inside me, please…"

A soft collection of moans and sighs came from the crowd as Skyfire obliged his Prime. He thrust gently at first, and it was clear to Ratchet – as he knew it would be to anyone watching – that this would be a really tight fit. The spike was massive, but Skyfire didn't force Optimus to accommodate him. Instead, he eased inside, shallow little thrusts slicking his shaft with lubricants and the silver of Jazz's transfluid, each small movement teasing Optimus open just a little further.

"More!" Optimus howled, and Skyfire pressed closer, deepening his thrusts. He raised Optimus's leg higher, allowing everyone to see his spike sliding in and out, the ridges making Optimus's valve contract on every entry.

"What a show," Jazz mumbled, and reached behind himself, seizing Ratchet's freshly extended spike. "Could ya do me the favour of doin' me," he whispered, and Ratchet obligingly lifted him, lining up their equipment.

It was so good to watch Optimus getting fucked against the wall, held in place by Skyfire, so open and vulnerable. His free leg dangled, his foot nowhere near touching the floor. And to watch that spike delve deep inside their leader as Ratchet's own vanished into Jazz's hot, slick valve – he could almost imagine what it was like to take his Prime like that. And perhaps he could later on, maybe with Jazz spiked underneath them, or with Sideswipe, who fidgeted in Ratchet's peripheral vision, looking horny enough to explode.

Jazz came well before Ratchet thought he would, his valve squeezing Ratchet's spike in a rhythm to match Skyfire's thrusts. But Jazz rode him through his overload, fiercely compressing, teasing out the pleasure until Ratchet felt the hot spurt of transfluid escape his spike, just as the current flooded him and the heat threatened to melt his interface circuits.

And still Skyfire pounded Optimus, faster now, picking up a frantic pace which made their armour clang and sparks fly. He seemed oblivious to the soft, needy sounds of the crowd, to Jazz's happy moans as he came down from his high. Skyfire focused only on Optimus, their optics locked together, their lips touching – briefly – with every few thrusts. Then Optimus tensed, and a moment later so did Skyfire, and they remained locked together, heaving for cool air, the flier's spike buried deep inside the Prime until their shared climax was over and the silver trickle of fluid escaped Optimus's full valve to run down his thigh.

"Thankyou," Optimus whispered, and Skyfire pressed against him one last time. Their kiss lasted long enough for Jazz to start squirming anew between Ratchet's spread legs. When finally Skyfire withdrew, Optimus leant against the wall, a sated smile on his face. But Ratchet was far from surprised when he turned to the crowd and spoke. "Who's next?"


	13. How Onslaught Lost his Virginity

**Content Advice:** explicit sticky smut, threesome, het with implied femmeslash.

**Characters:** Onslaught, Greenlight, Cascade (OC)

**Summary:** When trapped in a makeshift cave under a collapsed building, what else are three virgins to do?.

**Notes:** Written in response to a meme on LJ where people name a character and the writer produces a short fic about how they lost their virginity. This one was written for Antepathy, who requested Onslaught. It's set in the Decepticam AU.

* * *

**.**

* * *

They thought they were going to die.

Three new-builds, holed up in a cave made of twisted girders and cracked concrete: Onslaught, Greenlight and Cascade. The explosion had taken their commander, their barracks, their batchmates - an accident, people would later say, how very unfortunate. But for the three trapped beneath more rubble than any of them could shift, it was the end of the world.

They weren't making it out of there, and they knew it. Dying by microns because someone, somewhere had fragged up.

It didn't suit any of them.

Why sit there waiting for their cores to run down? Why stick to military protocol - no connection, no interface; Sigma knew the heliformers never did. And maybe what was good for the airframe would be good for the grounder.

And so Onslaught found himself on his knees in the dust, palms flat to the floor and thighs parted just enough for the exploration of a femme's curious hand.

He vacillated between hope and fear, between the certainty that they'd be rescued and the bleak belief that no-one would bother. They were new, they were inexperienced. Why pay to rescue a mech and two femmes when you could build a dozen more at a fraction of the cost?

But regardless - or perhaps because of - the wavering fear, his frame slowly heated, his panels drew back, and he heard the first reverential gasp of arousal ever to reach his audials.

They were clumsy, the three of them, un-coordinated, their lack of experience feeding a dearth of confidence that turned into frustration. But there were moments of triumph, little shivers of pleasure, long drawn out sighs, and a steadily growing tension that couldn't fail to be released.

His first spike stung. They'd tried too soon. So they stopped and waited, doing other things they knew felt good until they were ready to try again. His lips around Greenlight's finials, his fingertips teasing the rim of Cascade's valve, their hands on his cannon barrels, their energy fields pulsing against his; it was more than enough to make the pain melt away.

The second time was better; Onslaught's valve cycled open, his own spike aching as Cascade eased herself slowly inside him. Greenlight reached under him, stroking in time with Cascade's shallow thrusts. He seized her by the hips and pulled her close, licking the seams of her thighs, running his glossa ever higher and flicking it against the virgin tightness of her valve.

Cascade increased her pace; a grunt of pleasure and a flash of warnings at his hips as she gripped too hard and the metal bent. But what did that matter when the flood of current from her overload made his sensors sing and his valve contract in a way so wonderful that he'd never before thought it was possible.

Then Cascade withdrew, and Greenlight pushed him onto his back. She straddled him, urgent, humming with charge and trembling from what combination of terror and excitement Onslaught could only guess. She lined up their hardware as Cascade stretched out beside them, but where Onslaught had thought she would force herself onto his spike, she went slowly, far gentler than she seemed to want. He gripped her aft, and she lay over his chassis, rocking her hips to slide him inside her in a way that made him able to forget, for a moment, everything except for the interface.

Thirty two joors they were trapped. They wore down their laser cores early on, exhausting their energy and their fluids, until finally they lay huddled on the gritty floor, an exhausted heap of parts touching purely for the comfort it gave.

When the rescue team broke through, Onslaught thought they were a hallucination, the first stage of energy starvation leading to his hopes becoming manifest in his visual field.

He didn't stop thinking that until the heliformer arrived to winch him out.


	14. Soundwave and Blaster before the war

**Setting:** G1, before the war, Dysfunction AU**  
**

**Content Advice:** explicit consensual p'n'p and sticky smut.

**Characters:** Soundwave/Blaster

**Summary:** Before the war, before factions and energon shortages, when the Golden Age was only just beginning, two music-loving mechs met in Crystal City.

**Notes:** Written for foghornleghorn3, who requested G1 Blaster in the 'how did they lose their virginity?' meme. I couldn't see Blaster resisting the temptation to get it on until he reached Earth, which is why this one's set so far in the past.

* * *

**.**

* * *

It was chance that they met.

Blaster was cheerful and gregarious; he had a vorn behind him, and a promising future in social media ahead. Soundwave was older, quieter, a communications specialist with expertise in programming and a growing collection of sentient, symbiotic creations.

They ran into each other at the opening of Crystal City's sound and light garden. Blaster was enthralled by Soundwave's accent, and Soundwave was fascinated to meet someone with a similar frame to himself, but who hadn't yet given thought to building symbiotes. Blaster had come to network, but a breem into their conversation and the crowds had ceased to matter. Soundwave was there purely for the music, and was content to divide his attention equally between the complex melody ringing out from the crystals, and his intriguing new companion.

He knew Blaster was young – their first questions for each other were 'When were you built?', 'Which assembly line?', 'Who were your engineers?' – but he had no idea that social intercourse was the only kind Blaster had experienced.

So he invited Blaster back to his room, and Blaster – being thoroughly infatuated, and increasingly curious about what it might be like _not_ to be so inexperienced – accepted.

He even made the first move - a shy request to see what was under Soundwave's mask. And upon viewing that tentative smile for the very first time, he'd asked if he could touch.

The kiss was electric, static sparking as their lips met. The solid rhythmic bass of the latest song to sound from the crystals began to echo through the hotel, through their frames. It inspired Blaster to become more bold with his hands, to explore Soundwave's enticing planes and the reassuring size and solidity of his form.

Blaster never admitted his inexperience. He didn't need to; there was something about the pattern of synapses dancing through his cybernetic brain, something about the nervous, eager fluctuation of his energy field, that allowed Soundwave to make an educated guess.

"Do you wish to interface?" Soundwave had asked, and Blaster had kissed him again before responding, his words as warm and willing as his mouth.

"In every possible way."

They began with cables, a light exchange of data as they lay on the long low seating by the room's large window. Far below, the music and the illuminations went on.

They got to know each other's systems, and Blaster learnt to manipulate the data, to forge an instruction from information. He learnt to tweak the settings on his partner's sensors, to prompt the ghost of a touch or to spread a warm, exciting pleasure through Soundwave's frame.

It was slow and languorous, and increased in pace only when the music outside also changed. Blaster straddled Soundwave's lap, gasping as he accidentally ground their spike covers together, moaning as Soundwave sent a surge of heat directly to his interface hardware.

He was open before he'd thought about the ramifications, seeking through the connection for the controls to stimulate Soundwave's spike. Then he cried out, clinging to Soundwave's shoulders as the needy ache in his valve intensified, and a shocking, wonderful starburst of pleasure speared through him.

And then the phantom sensations ceased and a very real heat bloomed as Soundwave gently teased a finger inside his valve. The preparation took forever, or that's how it felt, and Blaster whimpered and whined, frustrated and needy and so very certain he was ready even though the intimacy of his connection with Soundwave told him he was not.

He leant his head on Soundwave's shoulder, flicked his glossa over the dark cables of his throat. He tried to relax, to engage the gears that would allow for expansion, and all the while Soundwave's engine purred in a deep and satisfying rhythm which echoed the music outside, while his fingers slowly caressed the inside of Blaster's valve.

Eventually, Soundwave lay him on his back, positioned so he could see through the window to the reflection of the light show in the clouds.

"Now?" Soundwave asked, and Blaster repeated the word in affirmation, "_Now_".


	15. Business Lunch, Swindle and Vortex

**Title:** Business Lunch

**Characters: **(very young) Swindle and Vortex

**Setting:** G1, Decepticam AU, at the very beginning of the Golden Age.**  
**

**Summary:** Swindle tries to convince Vortex to go along with his latest plan.

**Content Advice:** implied violence, assassination and snuff.

* * *

**.**

* * *

"We'll make a fortune!" Swindle grinned wide, his optics alight.

Vortex stared at the dregs of his energon. "Never thought I'd say this, Swin, but that ain't legal, and we're gonna get caught."

"No we're not!" Swindle protested. He sat back in his chair and propped his feet on the table. Overhead, the Cybertronian night glittered, star-spun and crossed with the vapour trails of a hundred types of airframe.

It didn't matter that the table was second hand, the energon cubes were mismatched, and the view wasn't from the penthouse Swindle longed for, but the top of an abandoned building Vortex had flown them to. It still felt good to be there, talking business with his new companion over the finest high grade he could steal. All that remained was to convince the rotary that his plan wasn't about to land them both in jail.

Vortex put his cube down and rattled his rotors. "There's a reason I don't have people film me while I work."

"It won't be people," Swindle said. "I'll be me. And you won't be in frame… much. And who cares if you are? There's thousands of rotaries out there all look like you, who the frag can tell 'em apart on film?"

"I can," Vortex said. "Spinister will."

"Then we'll put you in disguise!" Swindle said. He treated Vortex to his most hopeful smile. "We'll paint you up or give you wings on your legs or something. No-one's gonna know it was you."

"What about the subjects?" Vortex said.

"We go for empties," Swindle shrugged. "Low-lifes, addicts, the kind of guys no-one gives a frag about."

"That ain't my job," Vortex said. "My marks tend to be a bit more… high profile."

"Then we'll anonymise 'em!" Swindle beamed. "Or hey, we cut you out of the picture all together. No shots of you, just the victims."

"How's that gonna be fun to watch?" Vortex said. For a mech who'd been out of the military and in civilian society for all of half a vorn, he sure did have a lot of questions.

"Point of view?" Swindle said, as a whole new set of opportunities unfolded in his mind. "Done it with pleasure 'bots before. We fit a camera to your helm, and it does everything. You get your hands in shot, maybe your lower arms, but that's all. And frag, there's gotta be a million mechs with hands the same model as yours."

Vortex grinned. "And what do I get?"

"Forty percent of the profits, creative direction, and some extra help carting the parts off to the smelters."

This time Vortex laughed. "Fifty," he said, "and you do exactly what I say with the leftovers."

"Forty-five," Swindle countered. "And I'll throw in that set of laser scalpels you had your eye on earlier."

Vortex looked up at the stars as he appeared to give it some thought. Eventually, he looked back at Swindle and raised his cube. "Why the frag not?"


	16. Consequences, Swindle and Vortex

**Title:** Consequences  
**Continuity:** G1 Decepticam AU, set on Cybertron at the beginning of the Golden Age  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Contains:** reference to murder and torture. Nothing graphic. Crack.  
**Characters:** Vortex, Swindle, unnamed OC.  
**Summary:** Vortex and Swindle are in prison, after following through on their 'let's make snuff films!' plan.

Sequel to 'Business Lunch'.

* * *

**.**

* * *

"I told you so," Vortex sighed. He lay on his front over the topmost narrow bunk and spun his rotors. With the exception of goading Swindle, it wasn't as though there was anything else to do.

Swindle sulked on the middle bunk. "Didn't stop you going along with it," he snapped, as though that was somehow Vortex's fault, and not the fault of immense amounts of money, intensely gratuitous fun, and Swindle's own persuasiveness. "Two vorns," he added. "Two glitching _vorns_!"

"Could be worse," Vortex said. In the cycle they'd so far been incarcerated, he'd found that aggressive cheerfulness ground Swindle's gears like nothing else.

"_How?_" A new voice issued from the bottom bunk. Deep, threatening, the same voice that had told them five times already to be quiet.

"I could be _really_ bored," Vortex said.

Swindle thumped the underside of his bunk. "Don't even think about it. They'd smelt us."

"Think about what?" Deep and rumbly asked. Obviously not the brightest wrench in the toolbox.

"Takin' you apart," Swindle said. "The cameras won't put him off. He _likes_ being filmed."

A moment's silence from the bottom bunk, then, "That what they got you for? Makin' vids of killin' people?"

Vortex laughed so hard he nearly rolled off the bunk. Was the mech so block-headed he thought they'd get two vorns for serial murder? Not to mention recording it, distributing it, bribing or otherwise dealing with anyone who got in the way, and having more fun than was legal on any known planet.

"What's so funny?" the mech growled. Stupid _and_ short-tempered, he was going to be the perfect cell-mate.

"'Cause he's an aft," Swindle said. He thumped the underside of the bunk again.

"At least I'm an aft who knows how to use an EMP generator," Vortex countered. All that footage, lost forever; it was terrible. But, on the other hand, all that evidence, lost forever. When Iacon's finest had closed in on them, the only thing left had been the recording equipment. Which wouldn't have been a problem if Swindle had bought it from a normal shop like any sensible criminal.

"Then what _did_ they get him for?" said the occupant of the bottom bunk.

Swindle sighed the deeply felt sigh of a mech whose life was on hold. "Same as me," he said. "Handling stolen goods."


	17. Rain, Vortex and First Aid, dark

**Title:** Rain  
**Continuity:** G1, one-shot - doesn't fit in with any of my AUs  
**Summary:**

Vortex and First Aid come to an understanding.

Response to this prompt on the kinkmeme: http:/ tfanonkink. livejournal. com/ 7561 . html ? thread = 8596873 # t8596873

**Contains:** explicit sticky, unhealthy dynamic (at first, and questionable at the end), consent issues, noncon shading to talk of rape fantasy. Potential trigger: rape/sexual assault.

* * *

**.**

* * *

"You didn't report it," Vortex whispered. He needn't speak up; First Aid's audial was close enough to lick.

The Autobot trembled, but failed to reply. His thighs, however, pressed a little tighter either side of Vortex's hips, and his valve quivered around Vortex's spike.

The interrogator grinned, and held completely still. "Hoist reported it."

"Hoist?" First Aid froze, and his voice shook as beautifully as his frame. "Please tell me you didn't…"

"I didn't," Vortex said. "But I gave it a shot. There he was, all alone in the aftermath of battle, just like you." He adjusted his grip on First Aid's wrists, tugging them higher above his head. "But he was armed. You're meant to be armed, aren't you? And he was alert. I'm pretty sure you're meant to be alert too." He pulled back just enough to see First Aid's face. "He commed for backup soon as saw me. That's not something you've ever done." He stole a taste of First Aid's lips. "Is it?"

First Aid squirmed, hips bucking and back arched. Funny how his struggles had become that much more intense since Vortex had stopped with the straightforward interfacing and started with the questions.

When it became obvious that the Autobot had nothing verbal to add, Vortex leant his weight on First Aid's chest, and continued. "And where's your gestalt?" A pause to enjoy the panic in his expression, the brief roar of the Autobot's engine. "Shouldn't they be watching over you?" He thrust once and First Aid keened. "Shouldn't they protect you from all this?"

At long last, the fear emerged. Not the shivering, trembling terror Vortex was certain the Autobot had been faking since their first encounter, but genuine fear. It was highly intriguing.

"Unless…" He pinned both of First Aid's wrists in one hand, freeing the other to adjust the angle of the medic's hips. He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the heat and the squeezing tight pressure around his spike, then gave his prey's ceiling node the slow, grinding attention it deserved.

This time First Aid's head slammed back, making a dent in the leaf-strewn forest floor. His keening became a howl, and his fingers clawed at the air.

"Unless you've been playing me," Vortex said, and picked up the pace. For a while, it was like it had been the first few times; the Autobot tense and whimpering, open for the taking. He only stopped when the overload warnings began to flash. "Unless you wanted this all along."

"You…" First Aid panted, his voice broken and his valve clenching hard. "You made it obvious, what you wanted." His optics went dim, and his lips pressed together in a firm, pained line. The heat rolled off him, arousal and embarrassment, and he put in a valiant effort to calm his engine.

"I made it easy, did I?" Vortex twisted his words. "I gave you exactly what you wanted…"

"It isn't like that!" First Aid cried, but this time he didn't struggle. He didn't squirm or writhe, or even try to escape. He slumped, his arms going limp, his thighs loosening their grip. Only his valve continued to contract, and Vortex truly couldn't guess if that was intentional or not. "I didn't… I didn't mean this. Oh scrap, I…" First Aid turned his head, as close to avoidance as he could manage.

"You...?" Vortex prompted.

"I should have reported it," First Aid said, and his voice was barely a whisper. The light behind his visor died, and a fresh bloom of heat radiated from him. "But I didn't. I wasn't meant to be there. I'd gone because… because I knew you'd be there, and I knew what you wanted."

"You knew?" Vortex was enthralled, as much by the Autobot's obvious humiliation as by his confession. "Tell me."

"The way you look at me. The way you talked to me that time in Arizona, the way you… touched me, when Brawl had us captive. I…" He pressed his face to the dirt. "I shouldn't have, but I wanted to know, really _know_, and then Grimlock arrived, and…"

And the two Combaticons had fled in the face of four furious Dinobots. "And you escaped," Vortex finished for him. With the charge again dispersed, Vortex picked up where he'd left off, but slower this time, almost gentle. "So you put yourself in harm's way."

First Aid nodded. His intakes hitched, and his hips rolled to meet Vortex's slow thrusts. "We have files on you, you're a… a case study for certain psychological…" The sentence died in a haze of static. "I studied you, I put myself… somewhere you could find me. Oh Sigma, this is so wrong."

A haze of ran began to fall, turning to steam where it hit their armour. Vortex licked the moisture from the Autobot's throat. "Why does it have to be wrong?"

"You could have killed me, you could have hurt me, I didn't know you wouldn't, not with a high enough… oh scrap!" First Aid tensed, his valve clenching hard. "There wasn't a high enough probability that you wouldn't to make it an acceptable risk!"

"You came anyway," Vortex commented. And hot scrap, but the Autobot was on the verge of overload. He pulled almost all the way out, and First Aid moaned in unmistakable frustration.

The medic heaved for air. "I shouldn't have," he repeated.

"But you did. And again, and again. Keeping your team in the dark, not letting anyone know. And now here you are. You like it, don't you?"

Vortex would have loved for First Aid to have lied, to have said that he didn't while his systems returned from the brink of climax and his valve tightened so beautifully around the very tip of Vortex's spike. But First Aid simply sighed. "Yes," he said quietly. "And I know I shouldn't, but…"

"But you can't help it?" Vortex suggested. "But the thrill of the chase gets your engine going like nothing else? Except maybe the thrill of getting caught, of giving up control for as long as I want to have you, and _frag_ you're a kinky little glitch, aren't you?"

"I didn't think it would be that way," First Aid managed.

"You didn't think you'd like it?"

He sighed again. "I don't know. Maybe. I knew what I wanted, I just..." His optics blinked on, filling his visor with the palest blue light. He met Vortex's stare, but didn't seem to know what to say next.

Vortex couldn't help but smile. "You like this?" he said, and squeezed First Aid's wrists. The medic nodded. "And this?" He pushed back inside, grinding their hips together and making the metal squeal. The answering nod was emphatic, and the flush of embarrassment beneath the thin metal of his cheeks was oddly endearing.

"I didn't realise how, um, much I'd like it," First Aid said, his voice as soft as the angles of his face. "Giving up control, being… held down. Forced."

"Being used?" Vortex said, and the tightening of First Aid's valve was enough of an answer in itself. "And now there's a little voice at the back of your processor asking you what the frag you think you're doing talking to me about this, right?"

The slightest of nods this time. "I shouldn't have…"

The rain increased, and a little of the heat ebbed away.

"Frag 'shouldn't. I'm gonna want you again." He couldn't see himself _not_ wanting the medic. "If I chase you, will you let yourself get caught?"

"You'd… want that?" First Aid seemed uncertain.

Vortex thrust suddenly, sharply; the Autobot squirmed. "Can you play the victim for me?" He ran a possessive hand from First Aid's wrists to the wheel well by his shoulder. "Can you struggle when I want you to, and give in completely and utterly when I want your submission more than your defiance?"

The medic's frame quivered, but his voice was oddly steady. "Depends," he said, and wrapped his legs around Vortex's hips.

"On?"

"This… it isn't healthy. There need to be rules."

"Of course there do." Vortex almost laughed, but the sensation of the Autobot pulling himself further onto his spike was enough to cull that impulse. "You'll want a failsafe." His rotors dripped a steady stream of water onto the ground either side of First Aid's head. He shook them, and the droplets cascaded. "Rain," he said. "It's a good a word as any. Just say it, and I'll stop."

"You will?" First Aid said, as his temperature again began to climb.

Vortex regained his earlier rhythm; this time, he was determined to see it through until overload. "If it means I get to have you," he said, and it seemed to be all the answer the Autobot needed.


	18. Making Movies Swindle Vortex crack

**Summary:**

Swindle and Vortex get back to their old tricks. Kind of.

**Contains:** fully consensual (mild) painplay/bloodplay, BDSM, sticky, crack.

Follows on from Business Lunch and Consequences.

* * *

**.**

* * *

Screams echoed through hangar bay four.

They were desperate screams, the urgent, terrified cries of a mech in significant pain and genuine fear for his life.

Onslaught sighed the worldweary sigh of someone for whom the light at the end of the tunnel was a cursor blinking in an empty report form. He didn't want the bureaucracy, but he really ought to investigate.

Perhaps someone had caught an Autobot spy. Then all this would be legitimate, and he could find another - deserted, this time - section of the Nemesis to pace while he thought through his latest strategy.

The screams continued, punctuated by the odd growl and an echo of sinister and very familiar laughter.

Onslaught paused a moment to determine the source of the noise, then sprinted straight for it.

The door was unlocked. He burst through, engine roaring. Vortex, it was always Vortex. Except when it was Brawl. But this time, it was Vortex.

Onslaught had time to notice his interrogator on his knees between another mech's thighs, laser scalpel in his hand and torn circuits gripped between his teeth, before someone yelled, "CUT!"

Onslaught spun around.

"CUT for frag sake, cut!" Swindle leapt out of his chair, optics ablaze with a very purple kind of fury. He turned that fury on Onslaught. "Commander's got his aft in the shot," he snarled. "We'll run it again."

"Shot?" But Onslaught's processors quickly caught up. Shot, yes, there was Reflector in his new videocamera alt mode, and Rumble humming gently beside him. And Octane lounging in the corner; or at least he _had_ been lounging. Onslaught's scrutiny brought him to a kind of wary half-attention.

"_Shot_," Swindle repeated. "As in filming, as in you're ruining the production of perfectly legal and potentially highly profitable pornography." He sighed. "Tex, cut means stop."

"Nope," Vortex said, and the mech beneath him moaned. It was a big mech, bigger than Vortex. Wings crumpled, half-torn from his legs; a nosecone leant at an awkward angle above his head. Traces of dark paint showed under a later of… other paint, recently applied. Still wet in places if the smears on Vortex's knees were anything to go by.

Ramjet?

Vortex's engine purred, and he brought the scalpel very slowly down the Conehead's cheek. The mech bucked. "Oh frag oh frag yes! I mean no, arghhhhh! Someone help me! ARGHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Swindle made a frustrated noise of the type that Onslaught knew well. It was the sound of well-laid plans getting well and truly dumped in the smelter; he could sympathise.

To an extent.

"Legitimate?" he queried. He took in the bungled repainting, the broken circuits and spilled energon. Pink paint, his sensors told him, and dead spare parts. Mostly. Around 20% of the energon was real, and some of the damage exposed actual important parts of the flier. "Is he meant to look like…"

"An Aerialbot," Swindle said, and that pleading tone had begun to seep into his voice. "Doesn't matter which one. It sells. _Vortex_, put a hold on that until we start up again, _frag_!"

But Vortex wasn't listening. And neither was Ramjet. The airframe clawed at the floor, his vents heaving and his frame so tense Onslaught could see his armour vibrate. Vortex used the scalpel to lift a small section of his dermal plating, and slid his glossa underneath. Then he rolled his hips, and Ramjet made a sound not at all unlike a mech approaching overload.

Vortex continued to thrust. Rumble snickered, and Octane stared.

Onslaught rounded on them. "Account for your presence."

"Sound engineer," Rumble sneered, with a grin that said 'I'm not your subordinate, and you can frag right off."

Octane bit his lip. "Creative consultant?" he ventured.

"He's the runner," Swindle said, and slumped back in his seat. He dug out a datapad and tossed it to Onslaught. "The jet signed a waiver, it _is_ all legit. We're off duty, this ain't a critical part of the ship, and we can't be disturbing the peace 'cause Brawl ain't here."

Onslaught doubted the veracity of fully fifty percent of that last claim, but he consulted the datapad regardless. In his peripheral vision, Vortex pulled his spike entirely free of Ramjet's valve, and put his fist through the jet's chest. Ramjet whined in obvious happy frustration.

"I'm still recording," Reflector announced. "We can edit out his… aft. Perhaps our victim could get back into character?"

Swindle glanced at Onslaught. When he registered no obvious disapproval, a shadow of a smile appeared on his lips. "Ramjet, y'aint a masochist. You're a pathetic, terrified Autobot gettin' fragged to within an inch of your life by the evil, sadistic Decepticon. Lemme see it! Lemme _hear_ it! Tex… just… just keep going."

While Ramjet began again to scream, and Vortex continued to ignore Swindle in favour of being himself (which only had the desired effect by accident), Onslaught went over to the smallest of his team. "I seem to recall you got arrested for this," he said quietly. "Back in the good old days. Remind me how long the two of you spent in prison?"

"Til you got us that lawyer," Swindle said. "And this is different! This is like… proper acting. Except Tex. We ain't killin' anyone, and Scrapper's already agreed to fix up Ramjet for a slice of the profits."

"There are regulations," Onslaught said, "concerning the proper conduct of a soldier."

Swindle took a long vent and let it out very slowly. "All right," he said. "How much?"

"Consider it a favour," Onslaught replied. "To all of you."

Octane studiously looked away; Rumble sniffed his scorn. Only Reflector and his subjects failed to react.

"All right all right!" Swindle whispered. On the other side of the room, Vortex tugged Ramjet's hands above his head, and pressed them against the ruin of his nosecone.

"Struggle," he demanded as he lined up his spike. "Try to get away…" He pushed forward, and Ramjet only just managed to turn his groan of approval into an agonised squeal. The flier gave an approximation of struggling, while not doing anything at all to dislodge the spike from his valve, or to actually throw Vortex off.

"There's a market here for this?" Onslaught said, as Vortex howled in climax, and Ramjet screamed fit to make his audials ring for a vorn. "Of course there is, forget I asked."

"All right!" Swindle leapt up. "Reflector, I'm gonna need you in root mode for the next shot. We're gonna want three different angles. Tex, get your hand off his laser core, that's not for another two scenes. Octane, get Ramjet some energon. C'mon people, let's move!"

Onslaught slid into Swindle's chair and sighed. At least he wouldn't have to make a report. But, he thought, as he watched Vortex lick the fuel from Ramjet's face, he would have to stay. It would be foolish to allow them to continue unsupervised.


	19. A Gift From Chaar darkfest genfic

Written for dark_fest 2012 to this prompt:

_Transformers, any Autobot, Manchurian Candidate: an Autobot is captured by the Decepticons, tortured, brainwashed, and then released back to his own faction and triggered._

Does what it says on the tin, with added major character death. Dark themes, gen, doesn't relate to anything else I've written.

Massive thanks to naboru for beta. Without her wise commentary, this story could easily have been called First Aid Explains The Plot.

* * *

.

* * *

By the time they rescued Blurr from the Decepticons, he was changed.

He'd become quiet, defensive. He kept his back to the wall and one optic on the closest door.

His wrists were scuffed, his axles striped with gouges. Where the light hit him - where_ever_ the light hit him - was a new dent, a fresh weld. First Aid had offered to grind them out, but Blurr couldn't stand to be touched. Not any more.

Rodimus could imagine what had happened.

Wheelie had fared better. Beaten, yes; scarred inside and out, but he was still capable of smiling. He still rhymed in his own odd dialect; he still clambered over the Dinobots, and drove Daniel around at breakneck speed on the free and empty Cybertronian highways like nothing had ever gone wrong.

But he didn't talk to Blurr any more. And Blurr didn't talk to him.

Rodimus didn't like it. They'd been captured together, held together. Surely they could distil some form of healing, of reassurance, from their shared ordeal.

First Aid told him it didn't always work that way, and he should talk to Smokescreen if he was that worried. Smokescreen told him they were both making progress; he was doing the best that he could, and just to give it time. Recovery didn't happen overnight.

It wasn't what Rodimus wanted to hear, so he went to Jazz and Kup and Springer, and they all told him the same. Blurr was coping in his own way. Sure, his own way was a bit insular, and of course he wouldn't be ready for active service for a long while. But he was training, Jazz said, when the grounds weren't too busy, and he wasn't neglecting to rest and refuel.

Unconvinced, Rodimus went to see him.

Blurr stood in the centre of the room, arms folded. The floor was clear, the surfaces clean. "I'm fine," he said.

And that was all. Just two flat syllables in plain English; no stream of consciousness, no sharing, no insight into how fine he was and what he'd done to get that way. It was as though the Deceptions had scoured his personality and all Rodimus had brought back from Chaar was a drone.

"I miss you," Rodimus blurted. He grinned and looked away, embarrassed by his own sincerity. Blurr stared at him, and rubbed his wrists.

Rodimus tried again. "I'm not going to force you, and I know you might not want to, but do you maybe want to come on down to the rec room, and we can watch a movie, or there's this new video game Carly bought for Danny … Now I'm beginning to sound like you. I mean-"

"The old me," Blurr said. There was an audible click as his jaw set, and he pressed his lips tight together. "I'd like to stay up here, please."

Rodimus went to pat him on the arm, and the speed at which Blurr moved out of his reach was boggling. It wasn't any quicker than he used to move, Rodimus told himself, it was just that he didn't any more. Not while anyone was watching.

"I'd like to be by myself now," Blurr said. "Smokescreen said it was OK to want to…"

"All right," Roddy answered. He backed out, and his spoiler hit on the door frame. "If you change your mind," he began, but Blurr just shook his head.

* * *

.

* * *

Wheelie was waiting in the foyer. "In time, he'll be fine," he said.

"You really believe that?" Rodimus wasn't convinced, but Wheelie nodded. "You think he'll come down and talk to us again?" Rodimus asked, meaning would Blurr talk to Wheelie more than himself.

Wheelie glared hard at Rodimus' knees. "Tough time, too unkind," he said. "We both know, can't let go?"

"You remind him of what happened, is that it?"

Wheelie nodded again, and Rodimus felt a surge of sympathy. Knowing what he wanted to say, but not having the words, it was something he struggled with too.

"All right," Rodimus said. "Say, do you wanna take a turn around the track?"

Wheelie looked up at him and smiled.

* * *

.

* * *

When it came, no-one was prepared.

The briefing room was full: Rodimus stood at the podium, Ultra Magnus to his right. Arcee, Jazz and Kup took the first row of the assembled guests, with Wheelie and Sludge. Blurr stood at the back, behind the combiner teams and the other Dinobots, half-concealed by Cosmos and a crowd of Paradronian refugees.

Rodimus tried not to look at him, in case acknowledging his presence would make him leave. Instead, he looked to Arcee and Springer, whose encouragement was always welcome.

To his surprise, he managed to get through it all with only one mistake, and that earnt him friendly laughter. Rodimus ended his speech with the customary phrase, "Til all are one." No sooner had the words passed his lips than Wheelie raised his arm and shot Rodimus through the chest.

The impact slammed him into the wall. Smoke billowed, and Ultra Magnus caught him, lowered him to the floor. Another blast sounded, flames shot across the room. There were shouts of anger, Dinobots roaring, howls of panic as the Paradronians fled. Agony welled in his chest; his paint bubbled and parts seized. The Matrix screamed.

First Aid's face filled his vision; hands on his chest, a breeze on his exposed innards. Bullets ripped into the ceiling, causing concrete chips to fall like snow.

Two words reached Rodimus's audials, despite the chaos of panic and anger. Softly spoken, achingly sad, "I'm sorry."

Rodimus heaved himself up onto his elbow, craning to look. Blurr stood over Wheelie, a pistol in one hand, the muzzle nestled against Wheelie's helm. From his other hand wires dangled and oil dripped. Wheelie convulsed, a hole in his chest the size of Blurr's fist. Then his lips twitched in a smile as empty as his optics.

"So, so sorry," Blurr said, and he squeezed the trigger.

* * *

.

* * *

"Look at me." First Aid's voice, softly commanding. "Rodimus, can you hear me?"

"Huh? Yeah... yeah." Wow, that sure was some bright light. Rodimus tried to shield his optics, but someone had cut the power to his arms.

"You're going to be just fine," First Aid said. "But you need to rest. What Wheelie shot you with-"

Rodimus' vision adjusted, and the white glare resolved into the lights of medbay. First Aid leaned over him, apparently checking his responses. "Wheelie... Yeah, Wheelie shot me."

"The bullets were coated with cosmic rust," First Aid said. "We think they were trying to destroy the Matrix."

"They?" But the answer was obvious. Rodimus groaned and rolled his head to the side. A flash of blue caught his eye, Blurr on a bunk in the corner. The mech was still, the only movement the pulsing pink glow of the forced recharge jack.

"He's in stasis," First Aid said. "Just for the short term. He tried to deactivate himself after... after Wheelie."

Rodimus winced. "What happened?" he said. "I remember Blurr with the gun, but I must've blacked out."

First Aid shook his head. "Wheelie didn't make it," he said. "Blurr shot him."

"Blurr... I can't believe this. Wheelie was his best friend." But Rodimus had seen the gun in his hand, Blurr's finger tightening on the trigger. Blurr had killed him, after Wheelie had tried to destroy the Matrix. "They did something to him, back on Chaar."

"Yes," First Aid said softly. "It wasn't his fault. We should have guessed, but we were all so glad to have them back. None of us even considered it."

"I don't know," Rodimus said. He thought of Blurr's clipped words, his self-enforced exile. "I think Blurr guessed," he said. "I just don't think he wanted to believe."

First Aid glanced at Blurr, then grabbed a cloth and began to wipe down his hands. "Who would?"


	20. Terrorcons, Fear Of The Dark, crack

**Notes: **Written for the prompt: Terrorcons - fear of the dark.

PG-13, crack, season 3.

* * *

_._

* * *

Darkness reigned. No pale glow of optics was allowed, no headlamp or LED, or even the flicker of a natural flame. All was black.

And from the thick and clinging darkness, a voice. "Hey guys, _guys!_ You gotta touch this!"

There was a general clatter and a rattle of disturbed boulders as four beastmode Terrorcons edged slowly away from the fifth.

"Awwww, c'mon!" Blot protested. "I'm not kidding, you really gotta feel this!"

"No we don't," Cutthroat said.

"What he said," Sinnertwin added.

"Hold your positions," Hun-Grrr snapped, although it was obvious that his own position was becoming gradually more distant. "Especially you, Blot."

"But _guys!_" Blot persisted. "It's like seeing with your fingers..."

Rippersnapper snorted a laugh. "And what's it you want us to 'see'?" he said.

"Quiet," Hun-Grrr growled. "This is a training exercise, not a... a..."

"Daycare centre?" Cutthroat suggested. "Mental asylum?"

"All you can eat buffet?" Sinnertwin said with a complete lack of relevance, but a very wistful tone of voice.

"Buffet?" Hun-Grrr perked up.

"Seriously, you really gotta feel this!" Blot bounced, and a distinctly unappetising odour made its presence known in at least six sets of olfactory sensors. "The etching's so good, it's right down to the metal. Sixshot says-"

"Sixshot?" It wasn't quite a chorus of voices, and it certainly wasn't in harmony, but there were four parts to it.

"Yeah, he did it with a laser, said it'll last, but I gotta keep the nanites out of it."

"You got Sixshot to etch you?" Rippersnapper asked, as though he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

"Training!" Hun-Grrr yelled. "Get back to it. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can eat."

"Uh..." Cutthroat sidled a little closer to their leader. "How do we know Blot isn't the point?"

"Yeah." Rippersnapper said. "This is about fear, right? Partial sensory blackout and all that scrap? See how we cope? Well... what if..."

"What if Blot's the thing we gotta be scared of?" Sinnertwin finished. "Cause that works for me. There ain't no way I'm touching his aft in the dark."

"How'd you know it was my aft?"

There was a long and drawn out silence. The blackness seemed to thicken, filling their vents, bringing Blot's unique scent into their every filter.

"That," Hun-Grrr said softly, "is seriously twisted. All right, exercise over. Let's go find something to eat."


	21. Galvatron, Rodimus, The Cybertronian Way

**Notes:** Rodimus and Galvatron come to an understanding, and it may change the fate of the universe.

Contains rough consensual p'n'p. A bit dark, a bit cracky.

* * *

.

* * *

"What is the Matrix of Leadership?"

The question roused Rodimus from yet another bout of gloomily staring at the wall. "Huh?"

"You heard me," Galvatron snapped. "And you will answer. What is it made of? How does it _work_?"

Rodimus sighed, and slumped so that his forehead connected with the wall. "You know you can't use it," he said.

This earnt him a snarl. "I am aware of that. Answer my questions, Autobot!"

"Or what?" Rodimus turned his head, his helm squealing against the dull grey metal of his cell. Separated from him by a set of hissing pink energon bars, Galvatron glowered.

"Or," Galvatron said quietly, "in the fullness of time you will come to regret your lack of cooperation."

"Blah blah blah," Rodimus said, and turned back to the wall. "You still think we're getting out of here, don't you?"

"_I_ am," Galvatron announced. "My Decepticons-"

"Your Decepticons are probably in the next cells over," Rodimus sighed. His optics reflected on the wall, highlighting thousands of tiny scratches. He tried not to wonder who had made them and what exactly had happened to those people. "Face it," he said. "The Quints have won. We're not getting out."

"Defeatist!" Galvatron yelled. Rodimus turned away; a full orn of listening to Galvatron tear at his chains, at the bars, at the very walls of his cell, was more than enough. He didn't need to watch as well.

"You'll hurt yourself," Rodimus said, when the clang and clatter didn't die away.

"I," Galvatron said - and there was something new in his voice, a strain of hurt or desperation - "will. ESCAPE!"

No you won't, Rodimus thought. Not like this, anyway. If a guard came, then perhaps. Even stripped of his cannon and shackled to the floor, Galvatron was dangerous, and Rodimus had a fighting chance despite the mangled state of his left leg. But they hadn't seen a guard in the whole orn of their incarceration. All they could see was each other; all they could hear was the distant muffled echo of other prisoners, the lonely howls of despair.

It didn't help that Rodimus was seriously low on fuel. Galvatron must have been even worse, with his ranting and his prolonged violent struggles. More than once, Rodimus had seen or smelled the steady drip of energon leaking from Galvatron's wounds.

Eventually, the clatter subsided, and Galvatron's tired voice again broke through Rodimus' reverie. "Prime," he said.

Rodimus curled up on his side on the floor, his back to Galvatron, and pretended to be in recharge.

"_Prime_," Galvatron growled. "Do not attempt to deceive me."

Rodimus hunched tighter, the Matrix a tense knot in his chest, the floor cold where his frame had yet to warm it.

"PRIME!"

"What?"

"You didn't answer me," Galvatron said.

"Well no, I'm trying to sleep." Rodimus sighed. "Something you obviously don't need to do." Until he did, then there was no waking him. Rodimus remembered the first time Galvatron had slipped into recharge; Rodimus had thought he'd strained himself too hard, he'd thought his enemy was dying.

"Don't play me for a fool," Galvatron said. "Release the Matrix. Use it!"

Rodimus flinched and wrapped his arms tight over his chest as though his armour would come undone and the blue light would spill. He'd tried to use it, each time Galvatron was unconscious. He'd opened himself and taken it out and _tried_.

This obviously wasn't their darkest hour.

And what did he think the Matrix would do? This wasn't Unicron; he was in a cell on a prison ship or a prison planet or a prison dimension. He didn't know. All he knew was the bars and the walls and the floor, mundane and non-sentient; not exactly the Matrix's kind of adversaries. At full strength, he could have broken them himself; but he'd waved goodbye to full strength in the ambush when they were captured.

Each time he'd removed the Matrix, he'd set the it back inside his chest, and suffered the silence of the Primes. He wasn't cut out for this, and they knew it.

"Do it!" Galvatron screamed, and Rodimus wanted to punch the floor, the walls, even the bars with their agonising bite.

"I can't!" he screamed back. There was no trigger, no command line. It was a pit of memories that subsumed him at random, a curse he was forced to bear that would in any other hands have been a blessing. "I can't get it to work, so just shut up about it!"

Something bounced against his spoiler and clinked as it hit the ground. He refused to turn around, to play into Galvatron's blatant plea for attention. Instead, he groped behind himself until he found the offending object.

A crushed, spent bullet. Lovely. Galvatron had probably pried it out of his own armour. Its uneven surfaces caught the light; it had a tiny Decepticon insignia inexpertly scratched onto the side.

"What's this for?" he said, but he hoped Galvatron wouldn't hear.

"It's a reminder," Galvatron said. "You appear to have forgotten what we are."

"We're prisoners," Rodimus said.

"We're _weapons_," Galvatron countered, and Rodimus could hear that old edge of glee in his voice, the joy he so obviously felt in his own existence. "With or without the Matrix."

"Speak for yourself," Rodimus mumbled, but he kept a hold of the bullet.

* * *

.

* * *

"My Lord!"

"Rodimus? Can you hear me?"

"My Lord, drink this."

"Kid, wake up, we gotta go."

"Huh?" Rodimus tore himself from recharge, following the voices. Tendrils of night tried to drag him back, and he shivered, unable for a moment to tell dream from reality.

"_Kid_, get up." Greeny grey filled his vision, blue chips of glass, a concerned frown.

"Kup?" Rodimus shook himself upright. "Magnus?"

Ultra Magnus nodded, and heaved on Rodimus' arm. "We're leaving," he said. "Cyclonus, ready?"

A sigh sounded from the other cell, then a blast and a clatter of shrapnel, and Galvatron's harsh, triumphant laugher.

"Affirmative," Cyclonus replied.

There was no time for confusion. A truce, it must have been. "What happened?" Rodimus asked. He leaned hard on Magnus's shoulder. "How'd you get the cells open?"

"Later," Ultra Magnus replied. "Now, we get out."

"We will kill them, Cyclonus," Galvatron announced in a happy hiss. "We will dance on their bloated half-organic bodies. We will grind them into space dust!"

"With pleasure, my lord."

Gun raised, Kup exited the cell. Rodimus wished someone would give _him_ a gun - Cyclonus had armed Galvatron quickly enough - but no firearms seemed forthcoming. On second thoughts, he wasn't sure he could handle balance and aim at the same time. His crushed leg was awkward and painful, and hopping alongside Ultra Magnus was all he had the focus for.

Behind them, Cyclonus supported Galvatron, although he managed it make it look as though Galvatron was supporting him.

All in all, it was the most welcome, albeit about the oddest, rescue Rodimus had ever experienced.

* * *

.

* * *

The truce went on.

Rodimus had expected it to end in an explosion and absurd threats as soon as Galvatron was aboard the Autobot ship. But Galvatron allowed Cyclonus to lead him to the guest quarters, while Ultra Magnus deposited Rodimus in med bay, where First Aid and Hoist took swift and capable charge of him.

Galvatron refused repairs from anyone but Cyclonus, he later learnt. It was one of a whole parcel of facts that passed by his audios during and after his repairs.

"I was incarcerated with Cyclonus," Ultra Magnus told him, sitting by his medberth as First Aid made the final adjustments to Rodimus' new hip. "Much as you were with Galvatron."

"Fun, huh?" Rodimus smiled.

"You could say that," Ultra Magnus replied. "Luckily, the day of our escape, the Quintessons captured Breakdown. They imprisoned him within hearing range of our cells. His plan of escape was far more effective than ours."

"You had a plan?" That was nice and all, but it didn't make Rodimus feel like a great Autobot leader; he should have had a plan.

"We found a way to concentrate the acid from our secondary fuel cells," Ultra Magnus said. "It was strong enough to eat through the door. But it was too slow, and the fumes were unpleasant. Breakdown's method was far faster."

First Aid gave Ultra Magnus a long-suffering look. "19:00 this evening, report here for replacement filters and a full vent scrub. Cyclonus too."

Ultra Magnus nodded his acceptance, and Rodimus smirked. "I'll still be here then, right?" he said.

"Actually," First Aid said, as he made a final twist to a screw then patted Rodimus on the leg, "you're done. Stand up for me, I'd like to make sure everything's properly aligned, then you're free to enjoy a quarter orn of mandatory medical leave anywhere but here." He watched Rodimus stand, then added, "Or the bridge, or the war room."

"What if the Quintessons come after us?" Rodimus said. He walked around the berth, then flexed his knee. It felt good.

"Highly unlikely," Ultra Magnus said, as First Aid began to clean his tools.

"A quarter orn," the medic repeated. "_Mandatory_ medical leave. Off you go."

* * *

.

* * *

Rodimus enjoyed precisely twenty five astroseconds of his quarter orn exile from command before a purple hand beckoned him from a side corridor, and a deep voice announced, "Lord Galvatron will speak with you now."

"Um.. yeah, sure," Rodimus said before he'd actually thought it through. _No?_ the less reckless part of him added, but it was already too late. And besides, they were allies, this was his territory, nothing could happen. Nothing much. Well, nothing he couldn't handle. "Thanks, by the way," he said, as he followed Cyclonus through his own ship. "For the rescue."

Cyclonus didn't answer, only twitched the tip of one of his broad wings.

"You, uh, settling in OK?"

"That is hardly relevant," Cyclonus said. Then, after a moment's pause, "The quarters are adequate, although I find the recharge station a little... soft."

"Of course you do," Rodimus mumbled. He waited while Cyclonus opened the door. "You're not coming in?"

"Lord Galvatron will speak with you alone." Cyclonus didn't seem to like it, but Rodimus had long since worked out that his personal preferences didn't much matter to Cyclonus. "I will remain here," he added, gesturing to a computer console in the antechamber. "In case I am required."

Rodimus nodded and glanced up at the security cameras. Kup better be watching, or Perceptor, or whoever was on duty. "Where, uh..."

"That way," Cyclonus said, and pointed to the third door along.

Rodimus crept through, feeling like a raw recruit sneaking somewhere he wasn't meant to be. It was ridiculous; he was Prime, general of the Autobot armies, protector of Cybertron and leader of all Cybertronians. He wasn't some naughty rookie sneaking off when he should have been on duty.

He was the opposite, he realised. This probably counted as work, and First Aid would be... well, not angry, First Aid never seemed to get angry. He'd be disappointed, and he'd turn that blue visor on Rodimus, and Rodimus would feel like the scum of the universe.

Too late now.

Galvatron sat with his back to the long viewing window. Stars floated behind him, and hell gleamed in his eyes. "We will annihilate them," he said, with a grin that made Rodimus want to reach for his gun. "The squirming filth... You are repaired."

"Uh... yeah. You're..." Not exactly repaired, Rodimus thought. Patched up, perhaps. "You're looking, um."

"Cease the prattle and sit down," Galvatron said. "No, not there, _here_." He thumped the seat to his right. "I do not wish to shout."

"Could have fooled me," Rodimus said before he could get a hold of his vocaliser. "Sorry. Uh, what did you want to talk about?"

"Never apologise," Galvatron sneered. "A leader has no need to apologise. Ever."

"I doubt we're going to see eye to eye on that one," Rodimus commented.

"Your doubts are none of my concern." Galvatron slammed his hand down on the side table, making a pile of data pads jump. "My concern is for our joint attack. We will eradicate the Quintessons, we will erase their foul stain from the face of the universe, we will-"

"Aren't there kind of a lot of them?" Rodimus said. Without thinking, he picked up a datapad, just to fidget, but Galvatron grabbed his wrist. "Ow!"

"What are you whining for? Your hand is still attached."

"Nothing." Rodimus dropped the pad and massaged his wrist. "It was... just kind of a shock. Are you electrified? I mean, your armour."

Galvatron stared. "Cyclonus!"

The door opened. "My lord?"

"My patience is limited." Galvatron nodded curtly at Rodimus. "Explain."

"Of course," Cyclonus replied. He took the seat opposite, responding to Galvatron's impatient gesture, and spoke directly to Rodimus. "Lord Galvatron wishes to renegotiate the terms of the truce," he said. "To extend it to encompass a joint attack on the Quintessons, with the objective of-"

"Magnus should be here," Galvatron interrupted. "Cyclonus, locate him."

"My lord." Cyclonus stood.

"Hey, no, it's OK," Rodimus said. "I can handle this, it's all fine. Keep going." But Cyclonus was already leaving, and Galvatron was staring intently at Rodimus' wrist.

"You malfunctioned," he said.

"What? No. It was just a shock like I said. You probably got a wire out of place or-"

Galvatron poked him in the side.

"Ow, hey, no fair!" He squirmed away. There was definitely something wrong; not pain, so to speak, but a rasping light sting every time Galvatron's energy field touched his own. "Stop that!"

To his surprise, Galvatron actually stopped. "You will assist in the eradication of the Quintessons," he said. "You fight well, with or without the Matrix."

Rodimus' jaw dropped. A compliment? From Galvatron?

"Do you agree? Cyclonus can work out the..." He gave a dismissive wave, "details with Magnus. _Do you agree?_"

"Yeah, uh, sure, yes." Rodimus nodded. "Yes, we extend the truce." Ultra Magnus could indeed sort the detail; Rodimus knew where his own strengths lay, and they weren't in treaty negotiation.

"Then we will consummate the arrangement." Galvatron said.

"Consuh-what?" That wasn't the proper use of consummate, surely. But Galvatron's hand was on his thigh and the harsh grating touch of his energy field was everywhere, and oh, yeah, that wasn't actually that bad, now he was used to it; sure it had been a surprise before, but ooooh, that felt.. different in his seams. Different but good. "Uh!" He shook some sense into himself. "Shouldn't this wait until after we, uh..."

Galvatron pounced, and Rodimus' seat auto-adjusted, leaving him flat on his back.

"Uh," he managed.

Galvatron loomed. "This is the Cybertronian way, is it not? To cement an alliance, to commence the season of war."

Was it? Rodimus tried to call his history lessons to mind, but Galvatron's hands were everywhere - everywhere interesting at any rate - and thinking was rapidly becoming something other people did.

"Well?" Galvatron demanded. His hands continued to roam, but Rodimus got the impression that he was genuinely waiting for consent. Or at least for some kind of signal.

Rodimus tried to think through the rising charge. A longer-term truce would be good for them - Autobot, Decepticon, and everyone who got constantly caught in the crossfire. They could start anew, although the thought of eradicating the Quintessons - not defending against them, but actively perpetrating genocide - left a distinctly sour taste in his mouth. But Galvatron could be steered, surely. All that brute force, all that passionate anger. All those fingers, dipping into his seams, seeking the manual release to the panels on his sides. Hold on, wasn't he meant to be thinking something through?

"I'm waiting," Galvatron growled, although it didn't feel like it. It felt like foreplay. Rough, enthusiastic and wholly arousing foreplay. Galvatron pressed closer. Optic to optic now, and Rodimus vented hard, swallowing dry.

Galvatron laughed, and it wasn't his usual maniacal laughter, but quiet and calculating. "You intrigue me," he said. "You surprise me and you make me wonder..." He dipped his head and nipped the hot metal of Rodimus' Autobot badge.

"Oh scrap!" Rodimus' energy peaked, his field flaring and his panels opening. Cables tumbled out, and Galvatron buried his hands among them, stroking, tugging.

"All the things we could do... I will rule the universe! And you will assist!"

"Not all of it!" Rodimus choked. "Senate! We'll have a senate."

"Details!" Galvatron bit him again, higher this time, and Rodimus' denta squealed as he fought to scramble every byte of spare memory. "Who cares about details?" Galvatron cried, "We will rule!"

Rodimus shivered, engine revving so hard it whined. His rear wheels spun, and Galvatron pressed against them, moaning as the rubber burnt his paint.

"Is that a yes?" Galvatron's voice was harsh and quiet and full of promise. Rodimus didn't think he'd ever known Galvatron to hold onto one single idea for so long.

But was it a yes? Rodimus writhed, and Galvatron seized his wrists, pinning them to his spoiler. And how long had he wanted to ask someone to do that and never quite picked up the courage?

"Yes!" Rodimus cried, arching into the new flood of charge. "Yesyesyesyesyes!" Then Galvatron plugged into him, and all sense of the world dissolved.

* * *

.

* * *

He remembered overloading. He remembered overloading lots. On his back under Galvatron; then on Galvatron's lap, watching the stars through the window with his thighs tight to Galvatron's hips, and his mouth engulfing one of the sensory horns of Galvatron's crown. He remembered a languorous overload on the berth in the next room, and a long soak in an oil bath, connections thrumming and hands busy.

He remembered whispered hot requests, and quick assent. Then a move too far, a compartment on his arm coming loose. A small silver object tumbling to the floor.

It didn't stop them then, but later - a long while later after recharge and refuelling and an aggressive embrace that turned slowly sweeter - Galvatron picked it up. The squashed bullet caught the light.

Rodimus was a little embarrassed to have kept it, but Galvatron merely stroked it around the few spare ports on Rodimus' waist and growled low and pleased. "Mine," he whispered. "My Matrix-bearer."

It was better than 'weapon', at least, and flattering on a level that had nothing to do with logical thought.

And Rodimus could work on him. Make him more than the weapon of his alt mode, the weapon he believed himself to be. Guide him, perhaps. Not alone, but with the help of his advisors, with Cyclonus. They could harness him.

It would be a challenge, Rodimus thought, but it had to be easier than harnessing the Matrix.


	22. Blast Off and Blades, No Touching

**Notes:** Blast Off/Blades, consensual tactile

Written for naboru

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"What's this?" Blades said, and went to poke the glossy black surface.

Blast Off seized his wrist, violet optics ablaze.

"C'mon," Blades pushed. "What is it? What's it made of?" He shifted his weight on Blast Off's chassis, raising sparks.

"Ceramic," Blast Off said. Lightning fast, he caught Blades' free hand. Then he smirked, and slowly tugged the rotary's arms above his head.

"No fair!" Blades squirmed; that glossy black surface was now tantalisingly close to his face.

Blast Off gripped both Blades' wrists in one hand. "Behave," he said. "No touching my shields."

Blades grinned, leaned forward, and licked.


	23. Blast Off and Blades, message

**Notes:**

Blast Off gets a message from a rotary.

Implied Blast Off/Blades, mention of Vortex, crack.

A drabble written for tf_speedwriting over on LJ, and for naboru 3 The prompt was: aischrolatry - (Greek, n.) the love or worship of smut.

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Blast Off opened the message without thinking. It had arrived on a secure frequency from someone who was certainly not a friend, but could perhaps be categorised an enemy with benefits.

It read, 'I saw this and thought of you.'

With trepidation, he opened the attachment.

Then closed it again.

If he hadn't identified the transmission signal, he would have thought it was from Vortex. But no. What was it with rotaries and the love of pornography? It certainly wasn't something he shared.

Absolutely not.

With purely academic curiosity, he locked the door to his recharge and reopened the file.


	24. Megatron and Starscream, Sexy Costume

A fluffy little Megatron/Starscream drabble, based on that episode from G1 where Starscream dresses as Optimus to fool the humans.

Contains cracky fluff and perving.

Written for tf_speedwriting's Spam Weekend, to the prompt: _sexy costume_.

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"Wait, Starscream." Megatron strode from the bridge, a thoughtful look on his face.

Starscream huffed. "I thought we were on a schedule." He gave a haughty flick of his wings, but the gesture was lost under the heavy metal fabric of the Optimus costume.

"Turn around," Megatron said. "Hmmm, yes..."

Starscream rolled his optics. This was one of those times when compliance was more beneficial than sass. He rolled Prime's optics too, and stood with a hand on his jutting hip. "Are you done yet?"

"No."

"I'm not wearing it later, if that's what you're thinking."

Megatron smirked. "Oh, really."


End file.
